


Being the cowboy

by FlorenceVassy



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, F/M, Hurt, and james is an arsehole, mitski inspired this fic, nicola is too pure, slow burn maybe?, the basis to every malcola fic, we'll see?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2020-09-07 16:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20312620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlorenceVassy/pseuds/FlorenceVassy
Summary: "You're the one I want, you're my number one. And you've turned down every hand that has beckoned me to come."When Nicola is uncharacteristically cheery and declines to attend a work event because James is taking her out for their anniversary, Malcolm is sure something is up. It turns out he's right.





	1. You're my number one

“Where the fuck is she?”

Terri looked up from her desk, her glasses on a chain round her neck.

“Sorry Malcolm, you’ll have to be more specific by ‘she’. You know, over ten women work in our department, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but really by government standa-“

“Did I ask for a policy statement on cabinet gender equality? Go back to your fuckin’ librarian duties, rearrange some books, I’ll find her myself”.

By “she”, Malcolm did of course mean his wet flannel of a minister, Nicola Murray. She had given a disastrous interview on _Marr _and he was more than ready to deliver her a bollocking.

Malcolm spotted her through the glass door of her office, head bent over some files, sipping from a mug that contained lemon zinger, no doubt. He entered without knocking and took a seat before her.

“Malcolm, to what do I owe the pleasure?”, Nicola smiled (it was more of a grimace), without looking up from her papers.  
  
“Oh, you know, just checking in. How’s the kids? The hubby?”, Malcolm said, enjoying himself.  
  
Nicola looked up. “Not too bad, Katie’s driving me up the wall as usual”, she laughed softly. "You know, she came home the other day with a nose piercing, why do they insist on mutilating themselves like this?”  
  
Malcolm laughed. “Ah, it’s a generational difference - Katie with the nose piercing, you with the ear piercing.”

He stopped, his affable tone gone. 

“Yeah, I forgot you had your ears pierced. I forgot, that is, until I saw you on fuckin’ _Andrew Marr_, too fuckin’ flustered to answer some basic policy questions and twiddling with your fuckin’ earring til it fell out into your fuckin’ cup of tea!”

Nicola pursed her lips, her hands crossed. It was true. On Sunday around 10 o’clock, whilst under cross-examination from Andrew Marr on community support park rangers, Nicola had fiddled with her earring so intensely that it fell into her cup of tea. Twitter caught it instantly, of course, and the moment and Nicola’s embarrassed attempt to fish it out had drawn much attention.

“Yeh’ve been memed into fuckin’ oblivion!”, Malcolm yelled.  
  
“Memed? Wow, I didn’t realise you were so hip, Malcolm”, Nicola smirked. “Listen, I’ll fix it. I’ll do a _Guardian_ piece where I can actually get the policy across - and no earrings.”

Her nonchalant attitude was disconcerting. She wasn’t fidgeting, word vomiting, apologising, even. It almost, almost seemed to Malcolm like she was capable for once.

“Aye, make sure you do”, he said, getting up, somewhat taken aback by her cool response. “And make sure you’re at this function at the Corinthia tonight - very important for Tom’s gargantuan fuckin’ ego”.  
  
“Oh, I can’t come tonight. It’s mine and James’ anniversary,” she smiled, looking more pleased at the prospect of spending an entire evening with her leech of a husband than Malcolm had ever imagined.  
  
“Many happy returns”, he muttered, interest lost before he had even left her office.

* * *

  
Sat in the car on the way back from the office, Nicola rolled the window down and let her hand catch the breeze. It was summer, and a good summer at that - warm enough but not quite suffocating, with evenings nice enough to allow her and the kids to enjoy dinner outside without a jacket. She leant her head back into the light of the sun, the warm glow grazing her cheek, and she realised she felt content for the first time in a while. Her kids were happy, her relationship with James was better than it had ever been, and her work life was…well, that was the only area for improvement. But it made all the difference to come home from yet another disaster of a day to a supportive husband and loving family.

It almost seemed too good, and Nicola was sure that if Malcolm was here with her now in the car, he would tell her so. Chastising her in that rough Scottish snarl, telling her that she was deluding herself, that somehow it would all go wrong. It was strange how her anxiety shared the same voice as Malcolm.

And what was she **doing** thinking about Malcolm anyway? The kids were at her mum’s, and she was on her way to enjoy her first real date night in…she didn’t want to think how many years. She was going to have a blissful weekend and Malcolm and his anxiety voice could fuck off out of her brain.

* * *

Her office trainers kicked off and happily discarded until Monday, Nicola slipped into a black leather pump. Looking in the mirror, she smoothed her dress down against her hips. It was emerald green, her usually frizzy hair cascading in more elegant waves past the bardot neckline. She smiled. She knew she looked good and she felt confident. Malcolm was always saying she needed more confidence, but she knew that if she turned up to a work event in that dress, she’d be called “the slutty Green Giant” or something to that effect. 

Lost in thought, she hardly noticed James creep up behind her and dig her in the ribs, something which always made her jump.

“James!” she scolded, although she was smiling.   
  
“Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” he asked, hands running down her front whilst eyeing her in the mirror. She grabbed his hands and laughed.   
  
“Seriously Nic, you look fucking delicious”, said James, taking hold of her hands and placing them on his crotch. “What say we skip dinner and have a little fun here?”

Nicola rolled her eyes and removed her hands from James’ grip. “I didn’t get all dressed up for you to ruin it in five minutes”, she grinned. “Go and get changed, else we’ll be late.”

He slapped her arse as she walked away. “You’ve always been a tease, Nic.”

* * *

  
“You can’t have my prawns! If you wanted the prawns, you should have ordered the bloody prawns!” giggled Nicola, protecting her plate from James’ swooping fork attacks.  
  
“I suggested the place, I booked the table, I’m paying, they’re _technically_ my prawns.”

She took a sip of wine and nearly ended up spluttering it everywhere - not the best look for a cabinet minister at her anniversary meal. As she tried to recover, James speared a prawn, and popped it into his mouth with a triumphant look.

Nicola leant back in her chair, eyebrows raised. “You are **so** **_dead_**!” she said, aghast at his confidence. 

“Hold that thought”, replied James, as the iPhone marimba tone started to play. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the phone.  
“Oh come on James, not at our anniversary dinner”, sighed Nicola, pushing her fork around her plate.  
  
“Don’t worry darling, I’m not answering it”, he replied with a smile, tucking the phone back away.

“Good, now where were we? Oh yes, I was about to stab you with this fork for being a prawn nicker! Watch ou-”

The tone rang out again. 

James checked the phone, rejected the call, and set it down on the table. “Sorry Nic, must be a wrong number. You were sayi-”

The marimba chimed again.

Nicola slammed her cutlery down. “Oh my god James, just answer the bloody thing!”

“Nicola, don’t, it’s just a wrong number, leave it”, James started.

She reached across the table, snatched the phone and went to stab the green answer button, before the call faded away and returned to the lockscreen.

James made a grab for the phone, but Nicola pulled her chair back and outstretched her arm, blocking him. Three missed calls from Jessica.

“Jessica, what’s she doing ringing you?”, said Nicola with a laugh. “What kind of secretary doesn’t realise it’s her boss’s bloody anniversary?”, she asked, incredulous, extending her hand and the phone to James.

The phone lit up and the marimba once again began to play.

Nicola pulled the phone back and put it to her ear. “Look, Jessica,” she began, glaring James down in disbelief at the utter incompetence of his secretary. He looked just as mortified, and within reason too, thought Nicola.

“James, what took you so long to answer? Is..she still there? You said you’d be finished by 9:30. I’m in the hotel and I’m _very _lonely…”

The phone went crashing to the floor. Nicola could feel her heart beating in her ears, it felt like it was trying to escape her body. Her throat was suddenly incredibly dry, like it was closing up, and her breathing quickened. The room was spinning so she slammed her hands down onto the table, knocking over a glass of wine as she did so, the cool liquid seeping onto her emerald skirt. It was so hot in there, like a desert, she wondered why they didn’t have any fucking air con, it was the middle of summer in London for Christ’s sake-

“Nicola. Listen to me. I don’t know what she told you but it’s not true”.

She looked up from the wet patch on her dress, tears pricking in her eyes.

“Fuck you, James”, she managed to breathe, unable to say anything else from worry that it may come out as vomit rather than words. She picked up her clutch and slung her jacket over her arm. 

“Nicola, _please_”, James pleaded, “it’s our anniversary. Come on, sit down and we can talk this through”. 

Nicola laughed. “What is there to fucking talk about, James? You’re fucking your secretary and it’s our fucking anniversary,” she cried, not caring about the rapidly turning heads of the diners around them. She got up and began to walk away.

“Like it or not, I’m the best you’ll ever get, Nicky”, spat James, as he slumped back down into his chair, glaring at the whispering restaurant patrons.

Heels hitting the pavement at lightning speed, Nicola walked away from the restaurant, wiping a tear from her cheek. She didn’t know where she was walking, but she knew she wanted to get as far away as possible from her pathetic, humiliating piece of shit husband. She stopped at some traffic lights and managed to control her breathing and eventually catch her breath. She gazed down with a sigh, her beautiful dress ruined. In order to look like less of a lunatic, she found herself tying her rather expensive blazer around her waist in order to disguise the stain. Waiting at the lights, she imagined what sort of quip Malcolm might make about her look to cheer her up, in his weird way. “Like a mum with a fleece on a fucking school trip”, she thought, although he would probably do it better.

The lights changed and she crossed the road, heading down Whitehall. She didn't know why, but she knew where she was going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! The first page of this fic was sitting on my computer for like 2 months and I kind of forgot about it. I wanted to post a second chapter today but I didn't have time to finish it so it will hopefully be up this week. Let us know if you have any thoughts...


	2. Leave behind my Wuthering Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How could you leave me when I needed to possess you? I hated you. I loved you too..."

Tom’s event was in full swing by the time Malcolm had arrived. What the event was for exactly, he couldn’t tell you. Who half of the attendants were, he couldn’t tell you either, but he knew it was important that he suffer through for the sake of keeping up appearances. Whilst he was off the clock, Malcolm did know that he had a purpose to serve at the party, and that was keeping his ministers in check. God, he thought, it was like they had the slightest sniff of sherry and all hell breaks fucking loose. He cast his mind back to last year’s conference, where Ben Swain had been caught with a junior minister in a closet engaged in activity that could only be described as unsavoury. After putting that fire out, Malcolm had then had to drag Nicola back to her hotel room before anyone lost their hearing during her rather shrieking version of ‘Wuthering Heights’.

He remembered how she looked, arms all over the place, spinning around whilst she wailed along to the karaoke track. Malcolm had elbowed a cheering John Duggan aside as he pushed his way through to get to Nicola. 

He remembered pulling himself up onto the stage, to much excited jeering from the crowd. He made a grab for the microphone but Nicola dodged him, much to the crowd and John Duggan’s delight.

“I’m coming back love!” warbled Nicola from the other end of the stage, pointing at Malcolm, “cruel Heathcliff! My one dream, my only master-”  
  
Malcolm strode towards her and grabbed the microphone from her hand.  
  
“That’s enough now”, he muttered into her ear, guiding her by the waist.  
  
“You are **such **a bore”, she hissed, as the two exited the hotel’s function room.  
  
“And you are fuckin’ drunk. You smell like you’ve put an entire rum factory out of fuckin’ business. I hope Twitter don’t get their hands on this else I’ll be up all night trying to make it go the fuck away”, Malcolm said, swiping the key to Nicola’s room.

Malcolm sipped at his vodka tonic, and wondered whether this evening would be as eventful as that. “Probably not,” he thought, “as Nicola isn’t here to steal the show”. 

He spotted Ollie across the room and made his way over. Whilst he only _tolerated_ Ollie at the best of times, he did feel sorry to see him trapped in a conversation with Julius Nicholson.

Malcolm clapped Julius on the back, causing him to choke on his glass of port.

“Julius, me old mucker”, he grinned, “how are ya? How’s the Advanced Incompetence Unit?”  
  
“Well, actually Malcolm, it’s the Advanced _Implementation_ Unit, and it’s going just fine, thank you”, replied Julius blithely.  
  
“Implementation, gotcha..”, muttered Malcolm, wondering how on God’s green earth Julius had made cabinet. He turned to face Ollie.  
  
“You’re lookin’ sharp. I came over here to ask you for another vodka tonic. Thought you were one of the staff. You know, cause of this whole…situation”. Malcolm gestured towards Ollie’s waistcoat and bowtie combination.  
  
“Ha ha, very funny. If you think this is good, you should check out Glenn. Tom’s already tipped twice tonight”, Ollie said with a laugh, peering over at Glenn in his ridiculous burgundy shirt and black tie.  
  
“In fact,” he continued, “I think it was Nicola who said that-”  
  
“Nicola”, Malcolm repeated.  
  
“Yeah, Nicola said he looked like he worked in menswear!”, Ollie laughed, digging Julius in the ribs, causing him to once again spill his glass of port.  
  
“No”, said Malcolm, “Nicola. She just walked in.”

* * *

“Nicola, what are you doing here?”, asked Malcolm. He noticed that she looked rather dazed. “And why have you got a fuckin’ blazer tied around your waist? What are you, a teacher on a school trip?”  
  
Nicola gave a slight smile at this comment. “Malcolm, it’s nice to see you. How’s Tom’s function been?”, she said, dodging the question.  
  
“It’s been absolutely peachy, thanks for asking”, Malcolm replied, “but what happened to you? I thought you were at dinner with Husband of the Year and Father of the Millennium?”

Nicola took a deep breath.

“Well, we went for a lovely dinner - really, just lovely. It’s called Aviary, have you been there? Wonderful rooftop bar- anyway, yes, so we’re sitting at the dinner table and his phone rings! And it’s his secretary. And I answer it, and she doesn’t realise it’s me, and, well, it turns out she was waiting for him! In a fucking hotel room. To come and bloody fuck her. And so that’s how our eleventh fucking anniversary went.”

Her blazer had slipped down off her hips and Malcolm eyed a suspicious stain on her dress.

“And yes, I spilled wine down my new fucking dress!”, she cried, her mouth beginning to wobble. “Is that all you care about, that I’ve turned up here at Tom’s fundraiser looking unpresentable?”

Malcolm placed his hands on her arm and took her to the side.

“Nicola, I am sorry”, he spoke quietly. “I am genuinely so sorry. I knew he was a prick but I didn’t think he had it in him to actually hurt you like this”.  
  
Nicola looked up at him, surprised at the caring in his voice.  
  
“But do you really think this is the best place for you to be right now? You don’t want to be with your kids, your friends?” he asked, eyes darting across her face.  
  
“The kids are at my mum’s out in Wycombe, and I don’t want to talk to my friends about it”, she replied, voice faltering, “look, I just don’t want to think about it, okay? I just want to have a drink and pretend things are normal. So let’s have a totally boring evening filled with jokes at Julius Nicholson’s expense and chastising remarks made at mine.”

Malcolm looked at Nicola. He wasn’t sure that this was the best idea - he imagined the headline, “cabinet minister breaks down at PM’s fundraiser” - but her watery eyes and wobbly mouth made him feel like he couldn’t say no.

“Ok”, he said, “let’s get you a drink”.

* * *

Malcolm gazed at Nicola as she pushed her straw around the bottom of her glass. She was unusually nonchalant for someone who had just found out their bastard husband was slimier than expected. Whilst nice for Malcolm, who was used to her usual endless word vomit, he was slightly alarmed. He felt that she was like a geyser - all the water was bubbling below, ready to erupt into steam at any minute. Except it wasn’t water and steam, it was alcohol and tears in a room full of colleagues. Nicola was resting her other hand on her chin, looking off into the distance with a thousand-yard stare.

Attempting to lighten the mood, and also somewhat unnerved by the pace with which she’d been drinking, Malcolm quipped, “I see now why they call you Mojito Murray”.

It seemed to have worked, as she broke her stare and turned to face him.

“Oh no, they don’t really call me that…”, she grinned, embarrassed, “do they?”  
  
Now Malcolm grinned. “Unfortunately, I can confirm that they do- oh, and Martini Murray. And Negroni Nicola. You get the picture.”  
  
“Unbelievable!”, replied Nicola, outraged, “you don’t see them calling you…Vodka Tonic Tucker do you?”  
  
“No, you don’t”, Malcolm said. “Because some of us don’t develop a bad case of fuckin’ cirrhosis after one night on the lash”.

Nicola laughed at this remark, pushing her hair behind her ear. He was surprised at how composed she had been over the course of the evening. They had made quite the team, working together to convince Glenn that his suit was not only from the women’s section, but also that Sophie Raworth had worn the exact same one on the ten o’clock news. They talked work, picked at the buffet, and she had even tried to convince him to dance. He refused, of course, waving his hands and making a big show of needing to refill their drinks at that very moment. From the bar, he watched a befuddled Julius as he found himself dragged onto the dance floor to face the wrath of Mojito Murray, who was dancing wildly to Prince’s ‘Kiss’. He paid less attention to Julius’ awkward sidesteps and out of time claps, and more to Nicola and the sway of her hips. She rolled her shoulders and spun around in perfect harmony with the music, throwing her head back and laughing. He liked how her hair looked in its soft waves, so different to her usually unkempt mane. He liked how the emerald of the dress complimented her olive skin, and caught his gaze lingering on her arse more than he would have liked to admit to. 

Convinced it was the vodka tonic speaking, Malcolm checked his phone for the time. 1:30. He finished his drink and paced across the room, taking Nicola by the arm.

“It’s getting on late now, we’d better make a move and get you home”, he said, raising his voice so as not to be drowned out by Pharrell Williams’ ‘Happy’.

As he’d imagined, Nicola was reluctant to leave the dance floor, wiggling her arms about like one of those inflatable tube men at the car wash.

“Come **on**,” she whined, “one more song!”  
  
Malcolm was about to lift her up and out of the room himself but his conscience kicked in to remind himself what she had been through, and everything she would have to face when the morning came.  
  
“Make it quick,” he said, walking off to pick up the blazer and bag that she’d discarded at the bar.

* * *

Malcolm stared out onto a black London, lit only by the orange hum of lampposts and the neon glow of late-night bars. He was thinking about the million and one things that he had to do tomorrow; all the departments to visit, meetings to attend, bollockings to give. He wanted nothing more than to get back to his flat and collapse into bed. But he also had to deal with his currently dozing minister, whose head was lolled back against the seat. 

He went over the events that would likely pass over the next few months. The rags would get their hands on pictures of James moving his things out of the house. Nicola would become increasingly erratic and unpredictable at work as the court proceedings began. She would struggle with the four children on her own - James wouldn’t fight too hard for custody. All the fucking interviews he would have to prep her for, the leaks he would have to battle to keep out of the press, whilst also trying to convince the party and the public that she was good at her job…part of Malcolm told himself that it wasn’t worth it.

The taxi jolted to a halt and Nicola’s head slumped onto Malcolm’s shoulder, soundly asleep.

“Almost”, he thought.

He paid the driver and gently shook Nicola awake. He walked her to the door and saw her in. She threw her clutch and phone down on the sideboard and kicked her heels off. Malcolm eyed her black work trainers in the corner. 

“What a night”, she smiled weakly. The alcohol worn off, she now seemed more aware of the reality of her new marital situation.  
  
Malcolm returned her weak smile. “Yeah. Well. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest, eh?” he said, heading to leave.  
  
“Are you okay getting back? I mean, from here to Fulham, it’s nearly an hour…there’s no tubes at this time, your cab fare will be just _outrageous_.”

Malcolm turned back from the door to face Nicola. She stood in the hall, hands wringing her now-crumpled blazer, ladders in her peach coloured tights.

“I’ve already inconvenienced you enough tonight, the least I could do is offer you the sofa”, she said.  
  
“It’s fine. You’ve been through enough - you don’t want to wake up to me in the morning, I’m a fuckin’ sight to be hold, I can tell you that”, he laughed, brushing off her awkward gesture.  
  
“Yeah…silly idea really…wouldn’t want the press to get a hold of that! ‘Tucker’s sleepover with separated minister’”, Nicola said, giving a feeble laugh that came off more like a cough.  
  
“I’ll get the night tube and walk - nothing like a late-night walk to get the blood pumping, eh? Sleep well. Rest,” he affirmed, shutting the door.

Walking away, Malcolm wondered how this was the second time he had had to put Nicola to bed. He remembered being in her hotel room at conference, the look in her eyes as she apologised for her behaviour. He said it was okay, and made a crack about her being booked on the Christmas special of _Stars in Their Eyes_. He drew the curtains and handed her some paracetamol and a glass of water.

He remembered what she had said as he opened up the door to leave.

“Stay”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to MistressofObscurity and Mrsfluffy for your lovely comments & encouragement<3 This is slightly longer because I had a lot to get in! Featuring the return of Mojito Murray and her love of karaoke... again, let me know your thoughts & another chapter will hopefully be up next week :)


	3. A minute to hold my girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cold nights and the Sunday mornings, on your way and out of the grey"

“BBC News at six o’clock on Saturday the 24th of June. This is Diana Speed. Good morning. The Brazilian president Jair Bolsonaro has-”

Malcolm reached for the alarm and clicked it off. Even on a Saturday, he couldn’t escape the world of politics. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he had a brief moment where he wished he was a normal person who could lie in on a weekend, and press pause on Radio 4 and Twitter and the Guardian and do normal person things like watch the rugby and see his family. Then he remembered that he hated seeing his family, and felt slightly more like himself again.

He let the cool water run over him in the shower, trying to get some blood circulation going, as well as trying to shift the head he had on. He was surprised at how foggy his brain was and how dull his head felt, as he didn’t remember having drank that much. Or at least, he hadn’t _planned_ to drink that much. That is, until Nicola showed up…

Freshly showered and changed into a heather grey jumper and soft trousers, Malcolm slid his slippers on and entered his kitchen. He sipped at a cup of coffee whilst waiting for his toast to pop up, which he then spread with a thick lashing of marmite. He had promised himself this would be a work-free Saturday, as he hadn’t allowed himself one of those in a while - the last one was consumed by a statistics fuck-up, and the one before that, he had to deal with a video circulating of a minister who fell into a hotel lobby koi pond. He flicked on Classic FM, took a bite of his toast and began to settle into a symphony.

“And that was ‘Symphony in C major’ by Georges Bizet, conducted by Thomas Beecham. See you after the break”.

“Fuckin’ adverts”, Malcolm said under his breath, throwing his toast back onto his plate. He reached for his BlackBerry, allowing himself a couple of minutes of news and politics.

He scrolled through his messages - another fucking cat meme from Ben Swain, an old uni friend asking if he wanted to meet for a drink, a meeting reminder for Monday morning…the usual shit, thought Malcolm. He was about to click his phone off, but saw a text come through from Ollie.

‘Have you seen this? https://www.mirror.co.uk/uk-news/cabinet-minister-husband-spotted-…’

“For fuck’s sake”, Malcolm exclaimed, slamming his fist down on the table.

He followed the link to a story about how James Murray had been spotted kissing a young woman in a bar in Central London. And in case there was any doubt to this allegation, the article helpfully included a picture, with a big red ring around Murray’s face. Seething, Malcolm scrolled down and scanned the article for any mention of her.

“His wife of over ten years is Nicola Murray, Secretary of State for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. The flustered MP made quite a splash live on _Andrew Marr _last week when she lost her earring to a cup of tea…”

“For fuck’s fucking sake”, said Malcolm, getting up from his chair and throwing his phone down on the table. He ran one hand through his hair whilst the other one covered his mouth. He needed to figure out how to spin this in favour of Nicola, for the dignity of the party. _And _for her’s, he reminded himself.  
  


* * *

  
Nicola lay flat on her stomach, limbs outstretched like she was doing a spread eagle. She groaned as she lifted her head from the pillow, the taste of stale alcohol on her mouth - she’d made it to bed without brushing her teeth, then. She reached across to the other side of the bed, her hand lingering in the air before falling flat onto the mattress. So the prodigal husband hadn’t returned.

She hoisted herself out of bed, her once beautiful loose curls now a matted frizzy mess. In the shower, the shock of the cold water woke her up and made her feel a bit more human. Lathering her hair, Nicola began to trace over the various worries in her mind. The kids were coming back from her mum’s, she needed to figure out a policy statement for the next cabinet meeting, making time for a Sainsbury’s trip…and of course, everything with James. “Fucking bastard can’t keep it in his pants for more than ten minutes”, Nicola thought, wrapping a towel around her head.

The kettle boiled and Nicola poured herself a cup of tea. It was lemon and lime, from Whittard, a Christmas gift from her mum. She breathed in the calming aroma, taking a sip before catching the toast with her free hand. She sighed as she sat down in the living room - there were toys that needed putting away, the carpet needed a vacuum, and the hallway was full of shoes. “Although”, she thought, crunching her peanut butter toast, “even if James were here, it’s not like he’d lend a hand with the cleaning…maybe being husbandless wouldn’t be so bad”.

She flicked on BBC _Breakfast_ and realised she hadn’t text her mum about what time to drop the kids back. “Never would be nice”, Nicola muttered under her breath, before whipping her phone out. Her mum had already tried to ring her, she noticed, so she pressed the ‘ring back’ button and held the phone to her ear.

“Hi mum. Sorry I missed you. Do you want to bring the kids back for around 2ish?”, she said, between bites of toast.  
  
“Yes love, that’s fine, but…have you seen the news?”, her mum replied.  
  
“I’m watching it now”, said Nicola, glancing up at the TV, “why, what have I missed?”  
  
“Nicola, darling…I’m afraid you’ve not seen the papers. It’s James. He’s been…paparazzi’d…with…”

Nicola’s heart dropped to her stomach. Her blood flushed to her cheeks and her mouth went dry. Her mum was still talking, but she couldn’t listen to what she was saying. How did they have the story already? How could he be so careless?

“That…fucking…prick!”, she managed to spit, “how could he do this? How do they know already?”  
  
“I know darling, I know. Do you want to drive down, stop til tomorrow with the kids?”, her mum asked.  
  
“No..no, I’ve got to- I’ve got to get a hold on this, stop anything else before this leaky tap turns into fucking Niagara Falls. Mum, could you hold onto the kids til tomorrow? I can come and get them tomorrow morning, I just-”  
  
“Yes, love. I’ll ring you in a bit. I’ve got to go, Josh just threw a yoghurt onto my kitchen ceiling…JOSHUA MURRAY, WHAT ON EAR-”

Nicola put the phone down, and immediately picked it back up again.

“So you’ve seen the news, I take it”.  
  
“Yes. I don’t know what to fucking do, the kids might see it-no, they’ll definitely see it, or one of those snot-nosed little shits they go to school with will tell them on Monday, and then I’ll have to deal with the fake sympathy from their parents whilst they laugh behind my back. They hate me just because I refused to contribute to Ella’s Year 4 teacher’s leaving gift - he hardly taught her, I mean-”  
  
“ENOUGH, Christ woman, can’t you ever switch that mouth of yours to the off position? Look, it’ll be gone in a flash.”  
  
“But I don’t know _what to do_”, Nicola whined, “I haven’t even spoke to James, if he comes here, I don’t know what’s going to happen-”  
  
“Right, just…get over here. I’ll text you the address. Don’t make me regret my offer”.

The call ended, and Nicola trudged upstairs to dry her hair. It didn’t feel real until she got in the car and realised that she was going to spend her Saturday at Malcolm Tucker’s house.  
  


* * *

  
It took Nicola over an hour with the traffic to get to Malcolm’s. This meant she had had over an hour to mull things over in her mind. She had tried flicking on Katie’s George Ezra CD to take her mind off things, but that only made her think of their Easter trip down to St Ives. Katie had played it multiple times throughout the journey, and the album soundtracked Nicola’s memories of the trip - Katie and Ella lying next to each other in the sand, Ben with his sticky candyfloss fingers, James holding Josh on his shoulders as they waded out into the sea… 

Stuck in traffic, rain drizzling down the windshield, Nicola found herself rubbing at her eyes with her free hand. She switched off the music, ‘Hold My Girl’ coming to an abrupt stop, and spent the rest of the journey in silence, hands gripped firmly on the steering wheel.

She pulled up outside Malcolm’s flat, thankful for a parking space. She jumped out of the car, using an old paper as a rather shoddy makeshift umbrella, and buzzed the door to Malcolm’s flat.

“Hello?” the rough Scottish voice crackled over the intercom.  
  
“It’s me - can you let me in? It’s fucking pissing it down and I’m starting to look like Hermione in the Philosopher’s fucking Stone”.

The door buzzed and Nicola pulled at the door. She glanced over at a lift and headed up the flight of stairs to Malcolm’s flat.

Whilst waiting for him at the door, Nicola realised she felt oddly nervous - like she’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office. She felt awkwardly underdressed in a maroon jumper and her trusty pair of M&S skinny jeans. She was planning a headmaster related joke when the door suddenly swung open.

“Give ye a fright?” Malcolm asked, eyeing Nicola up and down.  
  
She abandoned the joke. “Just a bit”, she attempted to smile.  
  
“Well, are ye coming in or are ye just here to inspect my front door? Shall I leave ye to it?” Malcolm teased, noticing her red eyes and hoping to lighten the mood.  
  
“No, sorry, shall we-” replied Nicola, oblivious to Malcolm’s attempt at humour. He stepped out her way and motioned at her to enter the flat, before shutting the door behind her.

Nicola stood in the entrance of Malcolm’s flat, eyes darting all over to try and take it all in - this was the first and presumably last time she’d be invited into Malcolm Fucking Tucker’s home. She was surprised at his taste in design - the walls were a smart grey, his leather sofa littered with patterned cushions. There were shelves full of books, which Nicola hoped she’d be able to take a peek at if he nipped to the toilet at all. He even kept plants - who knew Malcolm Tucker, Slayer of Politicians, was able to sustain life?

“Can I get ye anything to drink?” asked Malcolm, breaking Nicola’s daze.  
  
“Um, yes actually, you don’t have any herbal teas do you?” she replied, still stood awkwardly by the door.  
  
“I’ll see what I can do…you’re allowed to sit down, you know”, said Malcolm, sensing the strange feeling coming from Nicola at being at her boss’s house.

He wondered why she felt so uncomfortable, considering he had been at her house the night before. Perhaps she didn’t remember? She _had_ put them away like cocktails were going out of style last night. But she seemed so clear when they had arrived at hers, like she knew what she wanted.

The kettle came to a boil and Malcolm carried two mugs over to the kitchen table. Nicola was nibbling at a hangnail, her eyes glazed over.

“Will green tea do?” he asked as he sat down.  
  
“Yes, that’s perfect, thanks”, replied Nicola, taking a sip. “I didn’t have you down as a green tea man.”  
  
He gave a short laugh. “Not mine. My sister’s. She’s into all that, detox your body, antioxidant crap. I keep it in for whenever she’s here.”

“I see”, said Nicola, making a mental note to never mention her antioxidant supplements to him. “Does she visit often? Your sister”.  
  
“Ehm, not as often as we’d both like. She lives up in Glasgow, so it’s hard to make time”, he said, as if he was catching up with an old friend.  
  
“That’s so far, isn’t it. Makes me feel guilty about not spending time with my mum, and she only lives an hour away! James’ mum and dad live in Richmond, but we don’t see them that often”, replied Nicola, her conversational spark dimmed at her mention of James.

Malcolm looked up from his coffee, and gave what he hoped was a sympathetic smile.

“So…we reach the massive fucking elephant in the room. James, in all his pigheaded wisdom, managed to get papped snogging that Paris Hilton wannabe of a secretary. And you are, rightfully, upset about it. He’s humiliated you, your family, and he ruined your anniversary. So what can we do about it?” he said in a teacherly tone.

“Um…we divorce him?” Nicola replied, hoping it was the right answer.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. We spin it”, said Malcolm, a grin on his face and a gleam in his eye. “Now, it’s an infidelity story - it’s hardly BBC Breaking News worthy, but, he’s mugged you off and you deserve to come out on top. Plus, ye could do with a bit of an image revamp…you’re a bit too…Mother at a Wedding at the moment.”

“What, so you’re gonna reinvent me and sell a narrative? Shall I record an album about my reputation next, since you’re hellbent on making me the next Taylor Swift?” asked Nicola, incredulous.

“With that voice of yours, you may not get many buyers. But, if you do this interview with _The Mirror _\- just about policy and being a woman in parliament and all that empowerment shit, and answer a couple of questions about James, this thing will be all under control, right? Then you can do what you like with him in your free time, divorce, separate - and the public will be on your side”, Malcolm beamed, clearly pleased with his plan.

Nicola looked at him blankly. “So what, this is some…twofer? I get to cover my arse in the press but also gain a bit of sympathy which is good for you?”

“You might put it that way”, replied Malcolm simply, draining his coffee cup. “Now come on, Miss Swift, we’ve got an interview to conduct.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! Sorry it has taken me so long to update, I have just had the absolute worst week :( I couldn't face writing but now I've got my shit together and written quite a jumbo chapter, which was actually really nice to get done with how the last week or so have been. I have big plans for the next 2 chapters so watch this space! (Spoiler: Nicola turns out to be a Taylor Swift fan, and becomes inspired by her 'reputation' album...time for bad bitch Nicola to make an appearance.) Thanks for all your lovely words and kudos <3


	4. Cause you're just a man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cause you're just a man, it's just what you do. Your head in your hands as you colour me blue."

Nicola was surprised to note that her Saturday had passed not without enjoyment. She spent the rest of her Saturday afternoon running policy with Malcolm, sipping cups of green tea, and rehearsing her statement about James’ actions and their marriage. At around one o’clock she was sat at Malcolm’s kitchen table eating a toastie, peering at Malcolm’s BlackBerry as he showed her the latest shit meme sent to him by Ben Swain.

“I’ve got half a mind to just block his fuckin’ number and be done with it, but who else would be there to wipe his arse after the next massive fuckin’ shit he takes all over the cabinet?” Malcolm asked, biting into his toastie, crumbs falling onto his lap.

He sighed, placing his BlackBerry face down on the table. He picked up their plates and put them in the sink, Nicola smiling a “thank you”, her mouth full of bread and cheese.

“So”, Malcolm began, leaning against the work surface, arms folded. “The meeting.”

“The meeting”, Nicola replied, giving a weak laugh, her eyes wide. “I’m meeting…Margaret Hansen, at Maple & King’s..at four o’clock.”

Malcolm rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a motion well associated with Nicola. “You’re meeting _Michelle_ Hansen, at Maple & King’s, at _three_ o’clock. Want me to write it down for ye?”

“Brain like a sieve”, she laughed, making a trademark Nicola Murray quirky head bob.

“You’re telling me. Look, don’t worry about it, alright? _He_ is the one who’s gonna come off badly in this, not you, as long as we keep a lid on it. Talk to him and tell him he’s to be a good boy and not chase after anything in a skirt until you’ve at least signed the divorce papers, got it?”

Nicola nodded, standing up from her chair and reaching for her car keys.

He followed her to the door, his gaunt figure towering over hers.

“I’ll see you Monday”, he said, as she turned to face him in the doorway.

“See you Monday”, she replied, giving a ghost of a smile and heading off down the stairs.

Malcolm stood in the doorway after she had left, trying to ignore the twinge of sympathy he felt for her.  
  


* * *

  
Nicola’s mood descended from post-interview melancholy into pure anxiety as she pulled up outside her house. James’ car was on the drive, so he was back. The kids weren’t home til tomorrow morning, which meant he could shout as loud as he liked at her. Her heart sank into her stomach, as she realised she was about to walk into an argument she couldn’t escape.

She twisted her key in the door and kicked her trainers off, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. She went through into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

“Where have you been?”

She sighed, back turned, putting her glass down. “I could ask you the same thing”, she replied, “except I already know the answer.”

“Nicola, I’m sorry”, said James. His hand on her arm made her jump. “I was weak, I-”

Nicola twisted round to face him. “No. Weakness is, is, eating a whole bar of chocolate when you’re on a diet, not fucking betraying your wife and your family multiple fucking times!” she cried.

“I’ve said I’m sorry”, he replied, his grip on her arm starting to make her uncomfortable. “I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“I don’t know either, James”, she said, wriggling free, “because for the last fucking…two years, it’s been like I don’t exist.

She stood in the doorway, staring at him. “Do you know what that feels like? To feel like a total ghost within your own home? I’m abused at work all day long, then I come home to my two youngest children already in bed, moody teenagers slamming doors on me, and a husband who, when he is here, hardly looks at me, hardly speaks to me, hardly even fucking touches me… The cheating was the tip of the iceberg, James, because you..you haven’t been there for me in a long time.”

James advanced towards her, and Nicola held her breath in anticipation of what was to come.

“I’m…sorry”, he said, looking down at her.

She exhaled, puzzled.

“I’ve been having a hard time at work, with the lost contract and everything. We started becoming more distant when you won your seat and I guess I didn’t really try to improve it. I know you don’t trust me - hell, I wouldn’t trust me”, he said, giving a brief laugh, “things with Jess are over…I was such an idiot last night, after you left I drank a lot. I want to make things right.”

“Okay”, she said, resignation in her voice.

James leant over and kissed her head, wrapping his arms round her shoulders. “How about I get you a glass of wine and put a pizza in the oven?”

She thought for a second about mentioning the teensy tiny ordeal that was the _Mirror _article. 

“Okay”, she repeated, looking up at him through a pursed lip smile.

Cross that bridge when we come to it, she thought with a slight grimace.  
  


* * *

  
Nicola rushed out of the house with much more stress and hurry than usual. She prodded Katie to get out of bed, made sure Ella’s school tie had the regulation seven blocks of blue, and hustled the two boys out of the house and into the childminder’s car, before grabbing her bag and leaving for work.

She gave a sigh of relief as she slipped into her car, safe in the knowledge that she had at least avoided James until the evening. Her stomach settled into that all too familiar sick feeling as she thought about how he’d be when he found out about the article. Part of her wished she’d just broke it to him last night and got it over with - now she had to face a full day of bollocking at work, to receive more of it at home.

“He was just…so _nice_ last night”, she thought, the knots in her stomach deepening as she imagined the flip in his mood. “But he fucking cheated on you, on your fucking anniversary!” she countered, in a voice not dissimilar to Malcolm’s.

As she walked into DoSAC, she could feel people’s eyes stuck on her, like one of those optical illusions where the eyes follow wherever you move. She held a hand to her stomach, feeling the waves of nausea ebb and flow with each whisper. She wondered how long it would be til James rang, how many voicemails he’d leave, how angry he would be for airing their dirty laundry. 

She sat down at her desk with a sigh, looking at the stack of files she had to get through. “I am a powerful woman”, she began to repeat in her head, eyes closed, breathing in through her nose. “I am capable. I am strong. I am-”

“Secretary of State?” a voice interrupted.

Nicola sat up straight in her chair, her mantra broken.

“I just thought you might like a tea. Lemon zinger?” said Robin, her voice rising in that way it always did, as if every statement was actually an uncertain question.

“Oh, yes, thank you Robin”, Nicola smiled, taking the little paper cup from her hands and looking back at her files.

She looked up, and saw Robin still hovering in front of her desk. She was a vision in grey today, with a matching grey hairband.

“Is…there anything else?” Nicola said, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

“I just wanted to say Nicola, I’m really sorry what happened. Um, all of us are, actually. We’re here if you need us”, she replied, smiling as she exited Nicola’s office.

Nicola exhaled and pinched her nose. Robin obviously had good intentions, but her sympathy came off as so awkward. She’d already had her mum checking in on her this morning, plus she’d received an influx of texts from James’ friends wives, old uni friends and other assorted acquaintances with that same sympathetic yet prying tone. She just wanted a normal day at work, where she could fuck up, try and hide it, and receive a barrage of abuse from Malcolm. 

There was a knock at the door. Nicola looked up and saw Ollie, Terri and Glenn’s meekly smiling faces. “Here comes the sympathy parade”, thought Nicola, returning their smile.

“Hi Nicola”, said Glenn, “just wondering if you had been made aware that the largest union for social workers in the country are striking…?”

“Thus begins a totally normal day”, she thought.  
  


* * *

After a far too long brainstorming session with Ollie, various pleading phone calls to social workers across the country, and an impromptu meeting with the union representative, Nicola was done in. She sank into her chair, spinning around in it aimlessly, wondering how in the hell she could make conditions for social workers better without eating into her already microscopic budget. It was five o’clock, and James was yet to try and contact her. This made the knots in her stomach twist tighter, as she knew he was saving it for when she returned home. So she decided to put in some extra hours at the office, to try and crack this social work issue, but also to delay the inevitable.

Whilst poring over a list of demands sent over by a union rep, there was a rap at the door.

“Working hard or hardly working?” said Malcolm, peering around the door with his usual malicious grin.

“You tell me!” Nicola replied with a laugh, waving her hands about in her usual quirky manner.

“How’s the whole, uniting the nation’s social workers under their love of justice thing coming along?” he asked with little expectation.

“Look, Malcolm, I’ve had a really long day, and I’m trying my best here-” she started.

“Nicola, I’m not here to rib ye. I actually, for once, fuck me, wanted to _congratulate _ye. The piece in the _Mirror _made ye come off extremely well. ‘I express regret at my husband’s unfortunate actions’”, he recited from her statement, “struck a nice balance between pitied cheatee and long-suffering wife. Hey, maybe ye should release that album”, he laughed, pointing a finger at her, “self-style as the victim, get even more people on yer side-”

“Enough, Malcolm!” said Nicola, getting up from her chair. The pair stood in silence for a second, exchanging a long look.

“I am sick and tired of being made out like I’m this, this _victim_. Do you know how many fucking sympathetic texts I’ve received today, some from people I haven’t spoken to since before, God rest her soul, Princess fucking Di exited this life and moved onto a _far _better place than here? I know you must be happy because your little plan to get people liking me instead of seeing me as the Harbinger of Hopelessness has worked, but it’s fucking _shit _to have people speaking to me like I’m this…tiny child whose mummy and daddy are getting a divorce, and no one wants to tell them it’s their fucking fault!”

Nicola clutched at her stomach. Malcolm watched the slight movement of her hand side to side - one of her ‘tells’ that she was feeling particularly anxious.

“Surely, even you are not dense enough to believe that this situation is your fault?” Malcolm said slowly, advancing towards her.

Her eyes avoided his gaze.

“Oh, fuck me!” he cried in disbelief, “Nicola, your piece of shit husband who chases anything in a fuckin’ skirt _cheated _on you. On your fuckin’ anniversary, no less, and managed to get papped whilst doing so. He deserves everything that’s fuckin’ coming to him and more, how can you not see that?” 

He had closed the gap between them so they were standing face to face. She couldn’t avert her eyes now.

“I know. I know you’re right”, Nicola said, “I just hate having everybody tiptoe around me like I’m this geyser ready to erupt at any moment. I’ve had Terri clucking over me all day…I started to count how many times she whispered ‘poor thing’ under her breath, but lost it at around number seven…”

She stepped back from him, resting on her desk. “I don’t want to be this poor, suffering victim at the hands of my shithead husband. I want to…be the cowboy in my own life, right? Just take control of all the…cattle, herd them to where they need to be. The hero. I don’t want to be _saved_”, she sighed, turning her head from the window to look Malcolm in the eye.

“Be…the cowboy?” Malcolm asked. If she didn’t currently look like death in designer heels, he might have made a crack about her having mad cow disease.

“Yeah, you know…it’s from this meme my daughter showed me”, she said with an awkward laugh that she swiftly turned into a cough, “be the cowboy you wish to see in the world? You can laugh and call me…Nicola Moorray, or something, but, that’s what I want to do. I want to take charge. I’m going to be the cowboy, not the victim”, she said, trying for an air of finality.

They walked through DoSAC together, chatting about nothing in particular. They said their goodbyes and got into their separate cars.

Sitting in the heavy London traffic, Malcolm wondered why he bothered at all with the private cars and didn’t just get the tube like a normal human being. He liked the hustle and bustle of busy stations, how a crowded commuter carriage let him slip into anonymity and be a regular person on the 9-5 for once. He thought about how someone like Nicola could never have the luxury - she had to take the car everywhere.

The light turned green and the car pulled forward once again. “Be the cowboy you wish to see in the world”, thought Malcolm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Thanks so much for your lovely comments and encouragement as usual. Hope you all like this chapter & are enjoying seeing their slowly changing relationship...I don't think Malc is as ice cold as he wishes. This update was more of an establishing where things are and going to be sort of thing, so I'm really excited to put the next chapter out...!
> 
> *also I realised the other day I messed up the TL with my references to recent music - so consider this taking place during S3, but imagine S3 taking place in 2019 :p


	5. I fell in love with a war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're growing tired of me. You love me so hard and I still can't sleep".

It had been just over a week since the _Mirror _article about James had come out, and more or less a week since Nicola’s follow-up piece had been released. After arriving home on Monday, James’ nice streak was unsurprisingly over. The kids were in bed and she was stood over the hob, reheating the other night’s spag bol when she heard the key twist in the door. She clutched at her stomach with one hand, the other still stirring, repeating her anti-victim, pro-cowboy mantra in her head.

James took his time kicking his shoes off and loosening his tie in the hallway, before the kitchen door creaked open.

“Smells nice”, he said, noticing how Nicola seemed to start just at the sound of his voice.   


“It’s just bolognese from the other night”, she replied, her head still firmly facing the hob, “I can do you some, if you like”.

“You’re too good, Nicola”, James grinned, standing behind her, his head falling to her ear. “You let me feel all guilty and play the good husband whilst you’re off flogging your story to a rag.”

“James, I-”, Nicola started, her heart fluttering, unable to shake his grip, “it wasn’t my idea, it was Malcolm-”

He snatched the wooden spoon from her hand and pulled her round to face him, his ex-rugby player build towering surmounting her by over a foot.

“So now you’re taking advice from the man I’ve had to listen to you bitch and whine about ever since you started fucking working for him?” James spat, eyes scouring her body. “Do you have any idea how _embarrassing_ that article is? I’m sure you’re having a great time playing the fucking victim trashing me in the press for everyone to see.” 

He took a step closer, his hand still firm on Nicola’s wrist. 

“What the _fuck _do you think you’re playing at, Nicky?”

“What do I think _I’m _playing at?”, she scoffed, incredulous, “James, you’re the one who’s been sticking it to your secretary for God knows how long! Malcolm suggested I do some damage control because we fucking needed it! I can’t bel-” she stopped, wincing as he clamped down on her wrist.

“You are not going to speak about this in the press anymore, understand? Or to that Tucker. We don’t need anyone else poking their noses in on our private affairs”, James said, releasing Nicola’s wrist.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, Nicola rubbed at her wrist. She wanted to scream at him but was afraid she would just choke.

“Nicola”, he breathed, holding her chin in his hand, “I’m sorry. I just- I care about us so much. I don’t want the press, or work, or anything getting in the way of us fixing things. Especially not some jumped-up spin Jock, eh?” he said with a grin.

Nicola gave a watery smile and quick nod. She got some more spag bol out of the fridge and asked if James wanted any cheese on his. So much for being the cowboy, she thought.

* * *

It was 5:30am on a Tuesday, which meant that Malcolm was already up, after a bracing shower and two pieces of marmite toast. He sank onto his sofa and grabbed the remote with still soapy hands from the washing up, flicking to the BBC News channel. He absentmindedly pulled out his BlackBerry and began composing a message to one of his scatterbrained MPs who was concerned about defending their, admittedly, marginal seat, when a news bulletin caught his interest.

“The British Association of Social Workers have announced that their plans to strike will continue after all, despite affirmations from Minister for Social Affairs and Citizenship, Nicola Murray, that the situation had been resolved. Social workers across the country have voted overwhelmingly-”

At 5:35 in the morning, Malcolm uttered his first, and presumably not his last, “fuck”, of the day.

After a brief call with Tom and a lengthier call with his secretary, Sam, Malcolm headed into the office with a sense of direction that only came with the chaos of government. The issue needed resolving and quickly, especially considering how much emphasis the party had placed on improving conditions in the care sector. So he decided that Nicola would have a meeting with the union at their headquarters in Birmingham. Although, at times, she was a human disaster, Nicola did well with these sorts of things, Malcolm reflected - she wasn’t just sympathetic, she really felt for these people and wanted to make a difference. People liked that she wasn’t just another Westminster handshaker, head-nodder. Also, it maybe wasn’t a bad idea for Nicola to get away from home. He knew the meetings with various union bosses and workers would take more than just an afternoon, so he had booked out three rooms at a hotel - for Nicola, for Ollie, and for himself, so he could keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t put her Jimmy Choo-wearing foot in it.

* * *

After the week she had had, Nicola wasn’t sure whether to bop Ollie round the head or kiss his feet when he told her that she would be heading off to Birmingham as of tomorrow. 

“Birmingham?” she said, her eyebrows raised so high Ollie thought they might keep going and disappear into her hair, “I don’t think I’ve had my cholera vaccination..”

“What? There isn’t a vaccination for cholera, it-”

“_Fine_, Ollie. Tell him it’s fine”, Nicola sighed, in reference to Malcolm, who she rightly presumed to be behind such a scheme. “I suppose it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to get away, even if it is just for a day.”

Ollie ran her through what was to be expected of the day - it was an early start, with the car coming to pick her up at 6am, giving her only an hour to check into the hotel and prepare herself for the meeting with the union heads, after which she would head out to meet the social workers…as he droned on about the day’s itinerary, Nicola felt herself drifting away. She twisted her wedding ring and chewed the corner of her mouth, turning over in her mind what James could get up to with her gone for an entire night. He told her he wanted to work on their relationship, but how could she trust him? 

Nicola’s stomach churned as she thought about James with his secretary, all this time, after the sacrifices she had made for the kids, for their relationship, for him. She started to question whether this trip was such a good idea, that maybe she should stay and keep an eye on things at home, until Ollie leant forward and shook her by the wrist.

“Calling occupants of Nicola’s brain, permission to come aboard?” he said, his gangly fingers waving about.

Her sharp intake of breath as he touched her arm puzzled Ollie, and he let go. “Everything alright? he asked. Sympathy was awkward for him, Nicola noted.

“Yes, sorry Ollie, just got a lot to think about at the minute. I think this trip will do me some good, clear the old head, not that there’s much in it, haha, infectious diseases or not…” she said, flicking imaginary hairs into place with a painfully fake laugh. 

Ollie pushed his glasses back up his nose and raised his eyebrows. “Ok”, he said, making a mental note to insist to Malcolm that Nicola gets more media training.

* * *

Despite her anxieties about James, he promised Nicola that he’d leave work early on Wednesday to fetch the kids from school himself and spend the whole evening with them. He was still asleep as she got herself ready to leave, and hesitated before leaving a light kiss on his forehead. She clutched her stomach, almost willing it to unknot with her hands, and headed downstairs to leave.

The journey was pleasant enough, despite Ollie talking her ear off about the latest instalment to the Marvel franchise. “How is it possible for one person to be this much of a geek?” thought Nicola, even though she was secretly glad for the distraction. She knew the day unfolding before her was not going to be easy. The reason she got into the job in the first place was to improve conditions for people like social workers and the people they care for. But the budget only allowed for so much - setting the phasers to equality was not quite as easy as she’d imagined it to be when she walked into the job that day.

If Nicola knew what she was getting into on that day she walked into DoSAC, she wasn’t sure that she would be sat in this car today. She could really do without Terri pushing her nose where it didn’t belong, Glenn’s useless comments, Ollie’s poxbridge snark, and Malcolm’s…well, she could do without Malcolm. She had never reflected on how strange it was to depend so much on someone you could barely stand to be around. Although, she had to give the Scot credit where credit was due - he had been stupidly helpful over the past week, with an almost suspicious lack of malice involved. Depending on her performance with the social workers, however, this malice could make a reappearance very easily, so she resolved to try as hard as she could to not fuck up. The last thing she needed was another of the men in her life ready to wring her neck.

* * *

Thankfully, the day passed largely without incident. She had tripped whilst running up a set of stairs and had developed an unfortunate ladder in her peach coloured tights, but she managed to laugh and make a joke out of it that wasn’t unfunny, and it was forgotten about. Unlike a lot of politicians, Nicola did feel for the social workers. She knew they deserved higher wages, but she also knew there was little money in the pot to do anything of the sort. However, the union thought the policy ideas she had developed were a good step in the right direction, and were prepared to work with her further to improve conditions for them.

After a busy but rewarding day, Nicola was ready to retire to her room at the Premier Inn and watch some crap TV. She had just boiled the kettle and flicked onto _Britain’s Got Talent _when there was a short rap at her door. She scuffled along the carpet in her ageing M&S slippers, wondering who it could be and _why _they were bothering her after the long day she had had.

“Malcolm”, she said, not even attempting to conjure a smile, “how can I help you?”

He let himself in.

“I heard good things from Ollie today. Yeah, quite good things”, he said, walking around her hotel room, silently questioning her taste in telly and alarmed at the apparent explosion of her suitcase, judging by the amount of clothing strewn about.

“You sound surprised”, Nicola said, folding her arms and trying not to look smug.

“You’ll forgive me, after Bella Italia-gate when ye lifted up the _entire_ fuckin’ pizza with yer hands, I’ve had to be on constant MurrayWatch”, he replied, his gaze snapping back to meet hers.

“Well, if you’re done congratulating me slash reminding me of past blunders, kindly leave me to it, will you? I’m tired enough as it is without your incessant doom-harbingering ageing me approximately fifty years”, she said, pushing him to the door, her head craning to see the act currently getting booed off by the BGT audience.

“Look, I was gonna ask ye if ye wanted to go fer a drink. I’ve seen the fuckin’ sights of Birmingham, and ye don’t look like ye’ve got a big night planned either. I’ll grab Ollie from whatever closet he’s currently wanking in. Are ye in or ye fucking out?” 

“No, no, I mean, I was going to watch this, but…I suppose I can get it on catchup. Yeah, no, it’ll be fun, team bonding and all th-”, Nicola started, blinking, unable to stop the word vomit.

“Alrigh, it’s one fuckin’ drink between colleagues to ease the pain of being in the post-apocalyptic wasteland that is Birmingham, don’t make me fuckin’ regret asking ye. I’ll see ye down there”, he said.

And with that, he was gone. Nicola smiled. Not quite friends, but colleagues. Colleagues who went for drinks together.

* * *

Malcolm’s back was turned away from Nicola when she approached the bar. He looked much less severe without the tie, like someone whose mind wasn’t constantly switched to Party Politics mode. He’s probably asked to go for a drink to go over policy, or media training, she despaired, not looking forward to the thought of press practice questions late into the night.

“Ollie still off wanking in a cupboard, is he?” she smiled, leaning against the bar next to him.

“Yeah, when he started yelling my name, I thought I’d better leave him to it”, Malcolm replied, with that dark look in his eye. “What you drinking? Will Mojito Murray be visiting again?”

“Funny. No, um, G&T, please. What about you? Is Macho Man Malcolm Tucker going to be nursing a whisky tonight?” she smirked, flexing her arms to mimic a strongman.

“Y’know, I don’t know why ye never pursued a career in comedy. You’re fuckin’ hilarious, my sides are splittin’”, he said, unable to resist the temptation of a sarcastic remark. “No, I’ll have the same as you. Go on and sit down, I’ll get it.”

Nicola did as he said and settled down into a booth. A couple of minutes later he had returned with the drinks.

“What’s with all the fuckin’ greenery? Christ alive, I wanted a gin and tonic, not a fuckin’ salad”, Malcolm said in disgust, picking at the stalk of herb poking out of his glass.

“They’re supposed to add flavour”, Nicola replied, “although I’m not sure what exactly that flavour is”.

Over the course a couple of doubles, their conversation turned from gin, to pubs in London, to regretful teenage clubbing experiences (Nicola contributed most of the chat here), to university days, to children, to marriage…and of course, to James.

“Yeah, I’d been meaning to ask, how are things going with that? Are ye still considering what we talked about, or…?” he probed.

“What we talked about?” she asked confusedly, gin rushing to her head. “Oh! Divorce. Oh. I don’t know, actually. He’s been ever so good with the kids lately, and he seems really sorry…”

“You’re braver than I”, Malcolm said, toasting his glass to her, “to stay a minute longer with that sack of Eton shit. Oh aye, he been beatin’ you as well, has he?”

Nicola’s heart started to race, clutching her wrist, she wondered if James had somehow managed to leave a mark when he was being a bit rough. She started to stammer and Malcolm eyed her knee.

“He finally had enough then, pushed ye down the stairs?” he said, reaching for her knee, where a purplish bruise marked her creamy skin.

The touch startled her, but she was relieved when she realised that was what Malcolm was referring to. 

“Oh, no, no! Haha. No. I tripped down the stairs this morning, well, tripped _up _the stairs, really-” she said, word vomit pouring out once again.

“Alrigh', alrigh', I don’t need a play by fuckin’ play analysis. Was just checking, that’s all”, he said, mentally annoyed at how sympathetic gin made him. “We’d better call it a night. Yeh’ve got a 6:30 wake up call tomorrow. Wonder where Ollie fucked off to this evening.”

Nicola drained her glass of the last few drops and stood up. “Death by autoerotic asphyxiation?” she said with a grin, as the two headed into the lift.

Ollie _wished_ he was in a closet, dead from asphyxiation. He thought it would have been better than seeing his minister and the Director of Communications cosied up together in a hotel bar, his hand on her knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. HI. HI. 
> 
> So. It has been a WHILE since I've updated. This semester has been kicking my arse, and I didn't want to upload anything half-hearted, so I have been working on TWO mega stonkers of chapters to upload at the same time. I hope you enjoy them and that they fulfil any Malcola-shaped hole in your heart - they certainly did for me writing them! I have much more planned to write, and I hope you like the direction it's going in. Thanks as always for your wonderful comments and support <3


	6. I really don't know clouds at all

As Malcolm had promised, a bleary-eyed Nicola was awoken at 6:30, and pushed into a car just before 7:30. She made a mental note to slow down with the gins, as she choked down a paracetamol to rid herself of a dull headache and munched down plain toast to shift a slight stomachache.

Malcolm, of course, was as spritely as ever. It made Nicola wonder if the man had ever suffered a hangover in his life, or if whisky just pumped through his veins. Whisky, and the blood of Satan himself, she thought, slipping her earphones in to drown out the sounds of Malcolm berating a junior minister down the phone. 

Thankfully, Ollie was less eager to bombard her with policy statements today, allowing Nicola to indulge in a favourite Joni Mitchell record. Instead, Ollie sat in the seat next to her, biting the skin around his already stubby nails, his gaze fixed on the motorway ahead. Nicola wondered if he was having relationship troubles himself - she wasn’t fond of that blonde Tory-loving toff, and he had been so helpful over the past week that she resolved to talk to him about it and make sure he was alright. It’s nice to be nice, she thought to herself, smiling.

In fact, the whole team had been good to her. Terri, even though at times patronising, always made sure Nicola had what she needed (which was usually a sausage roll hot enough to burn her mouth on). Glenn was always first to let her know what was being said in the press and, to her pleasant surprise, had been dealing with such matters semi-competently. 

And, although he had shouted at her last week when she had accidentally got locked in a toilet at Broadcasting House, Malcolm was being as saintly as the Satanic Lord would let him be. Nicola had actually enjoyed their couple of hours in the bar last night, and though she hesitated to apply the word “friend” to Malcolm, she was happy to feel like someone she worked with could be, for once, more than a casual acquaintance.

* * *

It was lunchtime when Malcolm began to notice something was amiss from his office at 10 Downing Street. Usually, when rumours were flying and whispers hissed through the cabinet like a pot of tea, he was the one boiling the kettle. But today, he was witnessing his own underlings giggling like schoolchildren and turning to gawp at him in the corridor with a stupefying lack of subtlety. After Dan Miller, knowing he was well within the spin doctor’s earshot, made some smarmy remark about not knowing Malcolm was into MILFs, he had had enough.

“Sam”, Malcolm barked, rubbing his fingers across his face.

“Yes, Malcolm?” Sam replied, already knowing what she was about to be asked.

“What the _fuck _is going on in here? It’s like I’m the fat girl who hasn’t been invited to the birthday party”, he said, trying not to let his fury at being out of the loop show.

“Not quite”, Sam said, trying to think of the best way to phrase it to avoid receiving an earful from her temperamental boss. “You were…seen, with an MP, in a…compromising position”.

Malcolm almost swallowed his own tongue as he attempted to express his disbelief.

“A-a _compromising _position? What the fuck does that mean? With _whom_, was I meant to be seen engaging in such_ illicit_ activity?” he spat, his mind racing for the person who could have started this rumour, or what they could have thought they’d seen.

“Well, it was-”

“Yeh, I know I seemed a wee bit _handsy _with Claire Ballentine at the Christmas party, but that was only because she’d had one pinot fuckin’ g_rigio _too many and was trying to start a poker tournament before I escorted her ou-”

“Malcolm, it was Nicola Murray. Someone saw you with your hand on her knee, an aide or someone.”

* * *

It was a quiet day in DoSAC. Particularly for Nicola, whose staff had hardly bothered her all day. Terri didn’t even look her in the eye whilst briefing her on the media’s perspective on the new social protection policies, and Robyn was tiptoeing around her even more than usual - she actually tiptoed into Nicola’s office.

Of course, this relative tranquility didn’t last for long. Nicola was tucking into her tuna crunch baguette at her desk when she saw Malcolm charging through the offices. Her heart began to pound as she wondered what she’d done this time, frantically checking her brain for potential cock-ups, flinching in anticipation of the door swinging open.

Except it didn’t. 

She stood up and peered through the glass windows, trying to track Malcolm’s movements. She wondered if he was finally going to get rid of that incompetent junior aide who had forwarded the photograph of Nicola with lettuce in her hair whilst greeting Princess Anne to her entire address book. 

“Fucking Aimee”, she cursed, as Malcolm marched past her desk.

Instead, he landed at Ollie’s. This certainly piqued Nicola’s interest - what had the green bean in human form done now?

She watched as Malcolm confronted him. He slammed his hand on the desk, so it was clearly something big. She began to return to her seat so she could finish the baguette, but whipped back around to the sound of a _thud_.

Nicola dropped the baguette and ran. 

“Malcolm, what on _earth _are you doing?” she cried. Malcolm had Ollie pinned to the desk, his hand clenched around his tie.

“Stay out of this Nicola, if ye know what’s good for ye”, he growled, not looking up at her.

“Yes Nicola, I do think it’s best you stay away from this. Do you want me to go and get you a sausage roll?” Glenn asked tentatively.

“Oh, so fucking _Glenn _knows more about this than I do? Let go of him, Malcolm”, Nicola said, staring at the struggling Ollie.

“Ye want to know what this is about?” Malcolm said with a laugh. “Go on then, Gumby, fuckin’ tell her. Tell your minister what you’ve only gone and said”, he spat, releasing him.

Ollie clutched at his neck, loosening his tie. His eyes darted to the floor as he drew his breath. “I…I saw you and Malcolm last night.”

Nicola’s face crinkled into confusion. “At the bar? Why didn’t you come and join us? What is this about, Ollie, I-”

“You looked…intimate. He had his hand on your knee. I…know about your affair”, he said, finally, still unable to look at either of them.

There was a silence only permeated by the relentless PING of BlackBerrys. Robyn scuffed her sensible shoes against the floor, and Terri pursed her lips, eyes wide. Glenn’s face had gone an unflattering shade of scarlet.

The silence was broken by a burst of laughter.

“AFFAIR?” Malcolm practically shouted.

“A-af-affair?” Nicola finally managed to shriek.

The DoSAC four stood, watching them, wondering if they had potentially witnessed a double-breakdown. It was unsettling seeing Malcolm Tucker laugh - Glenn didn’t think that was even in his programming specifications.

“We’re not- we’re not having an affair”, Nicola stuttered. “_Why _would you think that?”

“Malcolm, you had your hand on her knee. You…you’ve been spending so much time together and Nicola, with your…marriage problems, and everything, I don’t know..I just put two and two together”, Ollie said, almost realising as he said it out loud how ridiculous it sounded.

“I’ve got a big fat bruise on my knee from where I tripped, I was showing it to him!” Nicola replied, wiping the tears from her face and beginning to compose herself.

“Alright”, Ollie said, blush flooding his pale face.

* * *

Malcolm was so amused by Ollie’s mad idea that he didn’t go too hard on him, but he made sure that he knew never to spread so much as a syllable about him or Nicola again unless he wanted booting all the way to Glasgow. He made sure that Nicola was alright and promised to quash the rumour before heading over to the Attorney General’s Office for a meeting.

Whilst waiting for the lift, he caught a glimpse of Nicola, back in her office, her head in a pile of policy documents. The afternoon sun glazed through the windows, casting her in a golden light.

He thought back to the night before and how she had flinched when he’d laid his hand on her knee. 

He thought about how hard she had laughed when Ollie thought they were having an affair.

He thought about how he had only been having a look at her bruise, but also, how he’d allowed his hand to linger there.

Then he got into the lift, and tried not to think about it anymore. 


	7. Nobody's diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For the times we've had, I don't want to be a page in your diary, babe."

It had been an awkward few days at DoSAC. Ollie was still embarrassed by what he thought he’d seen, and visibly curdled like a glass of milk at the sight of either of them. Terri and Robyn could often be found in some corner, whispering furiously, ceasing immediately as soon as they spotted Nicola. And Malcolm…Nicola had hardly seen him. Echoes of his harsh tones would carry down the corridor, but he would never make his way into her office. She would catch a snatch of his hair, a sliver of his face, through the reflective glass of various meeting rooms and offices. She was walking towards him, once, and she could have sworn that he had ducked into a room he didn’t need to be in just to avoid a conversation with her.

So this is where they were. From potential work friends who could share drinks and a laugh together…to nothing. He couldn’t even make eye contact with her.

But if nothing happened, why were they both acting guilty? Why did Nicola catch her breath upon spotting his face on her way out of a cabinet meeting?

She bit down hard on her tongue. It was because of James. He had been so good with the kids, making dinner, asking about work and actually caring about the answer. If he found out that there were rumours about her and a coworker, it would all be ruined. He’d be the one asking her for a divorce.

It was half seven, and Nicola had once again overdone it with the policy drafting. She got up from her desk, telling herself she’d tidy away the overflowing reams of paper tomorrow, and left. It was a Friday and James had promised to do his famous jalfrezi. He had forgot to pick up her wine, though, so she would have to do that before heading back. Can remember his beers alright, Nicola thought, with a roll of her eyes. She picked up her bag and headed out the door, looking forward to an evening of good food and crap telly, far away from the world of work and its weird entanglements.

* * *

It was a Friday night, and Malcolm Tucker was going out. Going out. He felt stupid, like a wee 18 year old virgin heading for his first night out at uni, and turned the phrase over in his mind as he dragged a comb through his silver curls. He was in his fifties. He hated to admit it, but his ideal Friday night would be spent with a good bottle of whisky and some shite on the telly. An activity which was becoming less and less interesting with no one to spend it with.

It’s not that he didn’t have people. He had had many people. Malcolm Tucker was no stranger to a boozy tryst or two, and had even had a few “serious relationships” through the years. But no one ever kept his interest for long enough to stick around, not really. They didn’t understand his commitment to his work, to his party. The nagging to put down the BlackBerry at the dinner table got old fast.

Tonight was the birthday of Simon Harbury, an ex-colleague of Malcolm’s from his time at a think tank. Simon was a good guy—cool and easygoing in comparison to Malcolm’s unceasing intensity. He was looking forward to seeing him. It had been an awkward week and he was glad of the opportunity for a much needed drink. Probably best not to make it a gin, he thought with a grimace.

The evening passed with an enjoyable ease. It was nice to catch up with some old friends where the conversation was not, for once, about the government and policy and out of control, slightly batty ministers. The whisky had started to give him that familiar soft buzz he liked so much when Simon’s hand clapped him on the back.

“You doing alright there, pal?”

“Happy as a clam, Si. Thanks for inviting us”, Malcolm said, with the shadow of a genuine smile.

“Good to hear it. Thanks for coming”, Simon replied, and hesitated before drawing a breath. “No lady on your arm? It’s a sad sight to see.”

He gave a slight laugh and raised his eyebrows. “You know me. Married to the job.”

“You know I’d like to see you married. Again. Properly, this time. Married to Her Majesty’s Government unfortunately doesn’t pass”, Simon countered, before Malcolm had time to retort. “Listen, I have it on good authority that Louise over there might be interested in you.”

Malcolm swallowed quickly. “In the yellow dress? What’s she want with an old man like me?”

Simon shrugged. “Apparently she finds your cynical Scot shtick rather charming. She’s a friend of Ellie’s from the firm. Awfully bright. You’d like her. Doesn’t suffer fools. Think about it”, he said, with another clap on the shoulder. So he went to the bar and bought her a drink.

* * *

A couple of hours had passed and Malcolm was having a not unpleasant time with Louise, who was, as Simon promised, bright and interesting. She was American, a quality that Malcolm usually found tedious in a woman, but was rather enjoying in her.

She wasn’t bored by his talk of politics, and Malcolm was genuinely interested in hearing about her work on Obama’s ’08 campaign. She had even spent time in Scotland as a child, something that they were now discussing in great detail.

“Did you ever get up to the Isle of Skye?” she asked, stirring her whisky.

“Oh aye, of course. Absolute beaut of a place. I wish I were able to get up to Scotland more, but work is…demanding”, he said with a sigh, glancing into the bottom of his glass.

“Oh yeah, for sure. I’m on track for equity at the firm and it is just taking over my life! It’d be great to get away, take some time for myself”, Louise smiled, pushing her short blonde hair behind her ear. “Hey, I think I have some old snaps of Skye and some other places back at my flat. It’s only round the corner from here. What do you say? Indulge my reminiscences?”

Malcolm hesitated before giving a smile. “Indulge away”, he said, before looking down at his phone with a slight sense of alarm.

“Nicola…?”

* * *

It was nine o’clock, and after a bit of a battle, Ben and Josh were in bed, and Ella and Katie were at least in their bedrooms. Nicola traipsed downstairs, changed from her usual pencil skirt-and-blouse combo into a comfier pair of leggings and jersey. The smell of curry wafted through the hall, and Nicola clutched at her stomach, remembering she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, apart from the remnants of a Belvita she’d found at the bottom of her handbag at around 3 o’clock. She opened the fridge and began pouring herself a well-deserved, she felt, glass of red.

“God, your arse is fantastic”, said James, making Nicola jump as he approached from behind, causing her to spill her wine down her chin.

“James! Don’t do that”, she said, turning to face him, somewhat embarrassed at how frightened she’d been.

He took the glass out of her hand and reached up to dab at the wine still dripping from her face. “Apologies”, he said, a grin on his face, “but I just couldn’t resist.”

The wine wiped away, James held his hand to her cheek, his eyes searching her face. She could feel his hot breath, already tinged with alcohol. His other hand ran up her waist, making Nicola catch her breath, before landing on her wrist, which he held firmly. They stood like that, staring, his hands on her, until the timer went off, making Nicola jump once more, James’ hand sliding from her face. She made a move towards the timer, but his grip remained tight on her wrist.

“James”, she breathed, her eyes darting across his face, and mumbled something about the food burning.

He opened his mouth, glaring down at her, but closed it again, clearly having decided not to say anything. He relaxed his grip, picked up his beer, and went and sat at the table.

* * *

Full up on curry, Nicola decided the only thing for it was to wash it down with wine. Lots of wine. And James needed no persuading to do the same.

For the first time in a while, they spent what was an enjoyable evening together, probably aided by the continually flowing bottles of Malbec. They had scoffed their way through the latest offerings of reality TV, and went that ended, Nicola had switched on the music. James sat on the sofa, laughing and clapping his hands as Nicola bopped about to songs from their uni days.

“Oh, I love this one!” she said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, swaying a little from side to side.

“You say that about every one”, James said with a wry smile.

“Because it’s true!” she replied, hanging on that last syllable, shaking her head in the way only people drunk on wine do. “Can’t stop now, don’t you know, I ain’t ever gonna let you go, don’t go!” she wailed, becoming more breathless as her tiredness (and the Malbec) caught up to her.

She shuffled forwards towards the sofa, and James outstretched his hands, pulling her onto his lap.

“You done being a disco dolly now?” he said.

“Never”, she replied with a smile, flicking her hair out of her face, breathing heavily.

“You’re so sexy, Nicky”, James said, running his hand up her side and down her back.

“Don’t call me Nicky”, she said, with a sharp intake of breath at his touch.

“Nicky, Nicky, Nicky,” he said in a whisper, nipping at her neck and reaching up her top.

Nicola pulled back from his embrace, staring at him seriously. “James, I’m not joking. Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Come on”, he said in a whine, “don’t be such a fucking bore.” He put his hands on Nicola’s back, attempting to pull her closer.

“It’s not my fucking name”, she replied, leaning her neck away from his kisses. “It never has been.”

“Nic, Nicky, Nicola, whatever your fucking name is,” he sighed, “just let me fuck you.”

“Romantic, James. Really”. She rolled her eyes, but leaned back into his touch, unable to ignore the way the wine had made her feel.

“Gotta piss”, he said, withdrawing his hands. “Upstairs in five?”

Nicola nodded and he gave her a quick kiss before running upstairs. She leant back onto the sofa and gave a great exhale. She touched her hand to her forehead, as if predicting the hangover tomorrow would bring. At least it was a weekend, so she wouldn’t have to pull herself into the office with a bad head and a cup of coffee. Just the kids to answer to, rather than Lord Malcolm and his twin terrors, Ollie and Terri.

Malcolm had been so fucking weird lately. Since Ollie had put his proverbial foot in the proverbial it. She sat, rubbing her finger over her lips, an absentminded motion brought on by the rush of wine in her blood. She was thinking about Malcolm.

She’d actually missed him this week. Not the tellings off, but his little ways of making her feel better about things, in his strange way. Making her realise how silly she was for worrying. He’d be the first to call Steve Fleming a bald egghead bastard before anyone else on her staff even realised how deeply he had upset her. In fact, he had done just that.

She wasn’t sure if it was her favourite Yazoo song coming from the speakers stirring up feelings inside her, or if it was the way the wine flushed her face and made her heart pound so that she could feel it in her mouth that reminded her of Malcolm. But she knew she was drunk and she had that confidence that comes with being wine drunk that everything will be fine, so she reached for her phone.

Nicola’s fingers hovered over the screen, and she had to really concentrate to make sure it didn’t slip out of her hand. But, determined, she made her way to her contacts and pressed call.

“Nicola”, he said, with what she perceived as an embarrassed cough. “How are ye?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been so long since I have uploaded! I apologise! Life has been weird, as I'm sure it has for all of you! I have found it so difficult to sit down and write but I enjoyed writing this so much. I'm so glad I did. It's also been a little funny to write as I found out that my good friend knows RF herself...
> 
> I hope you are all keeping safe and well at the moment and that this chapter brings you a little light! Thanks as always to my lovely readers and commenters. I enjoyed writing this so much and I have some exciting ideas so I'm looking forward to uploading sooner rather than later.


	8. It's always been just him and me together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Me and my husband, we are doing better...it's always been just him and me together."

Immediately, Malcolm could tell Nicola had been drinking.

“Malcolm, sorry to call you out of the blue like this, I know we haven’t really talked much recently and everything, and it’s a weekend, and it isn’t really anything to do with work, actually, so-”

But then again, so had he.

“Nicola, pet, I can’t fuckin’ tell a word you’re saying. Are ye alright? How are ye?” He noted the way she tripped over the consonants and her vowels slurred together, and began to wonder if she was in town, in some bar, making mischief for herself.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine!” she said, her voice rising. “I just wanted to…check in, you know…things have been weird at work, I mean,” she coughed a little, “frankly, I thought you’d been avoiding me. Purposefully.” Here, Malcolm heard her take a deep breath, “and you know, that’s not fair. I don’t care what you think of me…if I’m some sad old middle-class mum or you know, political Rear of the Year, or whatever, but you know, you can’t just, stop talking to me because of some rumour that wasn’t even true.” She paused, and he could hear her quick breathing. “It’s unprofessional”, she said, with an attempt at a flourish.

“I think”, Malcolm said, “the point of a rumour is that it is never true. So ye didn’t need to qualify that.”

“What, that’s what you’re taking from this?” she cried, and Malcolm gave a slight smile—his attempt to wind her up somewhat had worked.

“Nicola, darlin’, there’s not a lot to take from your little…speech there, as it didn’t entirely make any fuckin’ sense. God, remind me when you’re sober to never let ye touch as much as a drop of hand sanitiser before ye make any speeches in case you go a bit barmy and decide to fuckin’ drink it.”

The line was quiet. He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but there was something about her—the way she rambled, maybe, or her constant need to justify herself to everyone—pushed him over the edge.

“So, what’s got ye so sozzled on a Friday evening? Wanky work function with fuckhead hubby?” he asked, attempting to alleviate the silence he had just created.

“No…it wasn’t a bad evening, actually, we had a curry and some wine, watched some telly…kids are in bed.” She was rambling again. Malcolm spied Louise stopping to talk to somebody on her way back from the toilet and realised he’d better wrap it up. “He hasn't been too bad recently, I suppose…forgot my wine though…and he hurt me earlier…did I say he forgot my wine? God, what-”

“He hurt ye? How? Nicola, where are ye?” Now he was listening. Now the constant flinches at the slightest movement made sense; Malcolm knew he could be a bit scary, but not enough to inspire fear at his touch.

“Wait, hurt me, what?” Her word vomit had started to catch up with her. “No…well, not really…just you know, sometimes he’s a bit rough…you know he’s quite big…rugby and everything! So I don’t think he realises his grip is too hard sometimes…there was this once when we were quite young, in our twenties, kids, really. It was a work doo, and he’d, um…he’d actually done too much coke”.

Nicola laughed, and he wasn’t sure whether it was because it was funny, or because of how ridiculous it was that she was telling him this.

“And we got into an argument over God knows what now, and we ended up with his hand around my neck…I suppose that’s as far as it’s ever gone…not that there’s a reason for me to be telling you this, of course. No, I’m fine! I’m fine. It’s not why I called, anyway, I-”

“Nicola, are ye telling me that pompous pig bastard has laid his hands on ye?” Malcolm said, feeling his cheeks begin to colour. He stared down at his hand which he had unconsciously turned into a fist. How was she only just telling him this now?

“No, well, yes, I suppose I am. It’s fine though, you know, I just set him off sometimes, you know what I’m like, daft bint-”

Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose, as he often found himself doing when speaking to Nicola. “Yes, y’are a daft bint, and you…set me off every time ye open your mouth, but I’d never fucking choke ye!” The cogs started to turn in his brain. If this is what Nicola was living with, in fear of, the reasons for her being the way she is were starting to become clear.

“Whatever happened to…riding the cow, eh? Whatever happened to taking charge of yer life, Nicola Murray style?”

“Riding the cow…?” she slurred, and he could picture her now, sat up in the kitchen on her own with half a bottle of Merlot. He hadn’t seen the kitchen, of course—when he had been over that one, rather strange time, just in the hallway—so he had to make up what it looked like in his head.

“Oh! You mean being the cowboy,” Nicola said, at last, with what sounded like a smile. “Be the cowboy you wish to see in the world…yeah…well…some cowboys got married, and have to put their cowdreams on hold.”

“Malcolm? You ready to go?”

He turned around to face Louise, the lemony yellow of her dress bright against her bronzed skin. He had almost forgot where he was, what he was doing, listening to her go on about cowboys and whatever else popped into her brain.

“Listen, eh, Nicola, I’ve got to go.” He paused, and he could hear her breathing down the line. “Look…I’m sorry about this week. Blame the wee fuckin’ Milkybar boy, whose fuckin’ porn-addled brain sees the slightest gesture as erotic and subsequently creams his tiny fuckin’ knickers.”

“Malcolm…will you ring me? Again? There’s um, there’s something I want to tell you.”

He swallowed, taken aback, and, wanting to dissuade her from more rambling, said, “yeah, darlin’. Yeah. Look after yourself.”

“Come on, sexy, get that wonderful arse of yours upstairs.” There was no mistaking the plummy tones of Nicola’s husband, James, even over the crackly connection.

And at that, the line went dead.

* * *

James’ alarm went off at 7. Even on a Saturday, Nicola couldn’t catch a break. He had rugby which meant she had to get the kids up, fed and occupied for the day. As she sat up to reach for her phone, she breathed in deeply, touching her palm to her forehead. She wasn’t twenty anymore, and unfortunately, neither was her liver.

After a breakfast high in coffee and Berocca, Nicola got the kids in the car and set off. She dropped Katie off at her friend’s house and Ella at her ballet class, where she would be picked up by one of the other mums for a sleepover later. Then it was on to her mum’s in Wycombe. Her mum was good at digging, and knew a little about what had been going on with James, and Nicola imagined this would be the perfect opportunity for her to poke around and offer her very unsolicited advice.

The morning passed into the afternoon with copious amounts of tea. Despite only being 45 minutes away, Nicola often felt transported into a different time and space when visiting her mum. Life in London was all pollution and meetings and taxi drivers angrily beeping at you when you get your heel stuck in a grate in the middle of the road (who puts a grate in the middle of a road?…) So it was good to get away, even if only 45 minutes away.

It was good for the boys, too. Whilst nice, and far from modest, Nicola’s house was still in London, which meant garden space was rather limited. Her mum’s house had a great stretch of garden fit for the boys to play a real game of football. When Katie was born, she’d had it fitted with a swing set, and had added various other bits and pieces over the years: a climbing frame, a paddling pool for the summer, and the jewel in the boys’ crown, a trampoline.

Looking at her mum as they sat on her patio, sunglasses both perched atop their heads, Nicola half suspected she did this to make up for what she never had as a child. They weren’t poor, not by any means - they were certifiably middle class, her father a doctor, and she and her brother had grown up pretty comfortably in their childhood home in Surrey. But things did undeniably get tougher after her dad’s death, and Nicola did feel she had had to grow up rather fast. So she didn’t complain too much when she felt her mum had bought them too much at Christmas, or when she’d insist on taking them on no-expenses-apparently-spared day trips.

“So, still not told the bastard to sling his hook then, I gather?” she said, sipping her tea, eyes averted from Nicola’s gaze.

“No, mum…not yet, anyway”, Nicola replied, craning her neck to make sure the boys weren’t fighting again.

“Not yet?” she said, turning to face her. “But it’s not off the table?” Now, she was interested, Nicola thought.

“Well…” Nicola sighed, draining her mug of its last dregs. “He’s been good recently, so I wouldn’t want to make a rash decision. And you know, the kids…”

“Your dad would have hated to see you like this, Nicola”, her mum said through pursed lips. “You haven’t been happy, not really, for years, and you know it. You and your brother did just fine being raised by-”

“By you, yeah, I know, mum. But I’m not you. I’m not…” she stopped, staring at the grass in front of her, trying to think of how to phrase it. “It’s different…I’m not…good at being a mum. I didn’t ever want this many, anyway…”

“Nicola, sweetheart, you need to put yourself first.” Her mum had grabbed her hand and placed it in her own. Her eyes were searching her daughter’s face for some sign of recognition, that she was getting through to her. “The kids will understand as they get older. The girls are old enough to see through him. An unhappy parent is an unhappy child. I love you, darling…”

Her mum gave a smile and squeezed her hand. She picked up the mugs and went to take them inside.

“And don’t think I don’t notice the bruises,” she said, her back turned, leaving Nicola alone, watching her as she headed down the lawn into the house.

* * *

It was nearing 4 o’clock when Nicola got home. As she drove, her knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, as her earlier conversation with her mum continued to run through her mind. She knew her mum, and she wasn’t likely to let this drop.

“Muuuum, what are we having for dinner?” were the first words to greet Nicola as she walked through the door.

She stepped into the living room, and was greeted not just by Katie, but by two of her friends as well.

“Mum, you remember Elle and Laura, don’t you?” Katie said, without looking up from her phone.

“Uh, yes, yes, hello girls,” Nicola replied, looking between the two of them, trying to remember whose house she had dropped Katie at a few hours prior. She then remembered that she had been asked a question.

“Oh, I don’t know, darling, have you not asked your dad?” she said, readjusting her sunglasses which were sliding from her forehead, and hoping she also wouldn’t have to feed the other two girls whose names she had already forgotten.

“I asked him and he told me to ask you when you got home.”

Nicola’s grip tightened on the car keys which were still in her hand, driving one of the keys against the soft flesh of her palm. “Did he?” she said, with a smile that came out more like a grimace, and turned on her heel to find the lazy fucking bastard of a husband she called James.

She dropped the keys on the kitchen counter and spotted him through the window. She pulled back the sliding doors and walked into the garden in a way that could only be described as a stomp. James had his back to her, and she could hear the sounds of BBC Radio 5 Live emanating from his portable radio. He had made a sort of makeshift cooler from the plastic laundry hamper which he had filled with ice and beers. He was just about to crack open another one when Nicola approached.

“Hi darli-” he started, unaware of the storm of shit that was about to befall him.

“Why would you tell Katie to wait for me to get home to cook her dinner? Are you so incapable that you can’t even muster just chucking some fucking potato waffles and fucking…chicken nuggets in the oven?” she said, trying not to raise her voice as she was wary of the neighbours peering through their blinds after the rather uproarious fight they had had during a barbecue last summer.

He shrugged his shoulders, not turning around to face his wife, who was becoming more infuriated by the second. She moved in front of him.

“Is that all you’ve got for me? A shrug of your shoulders?” Nicola imitated him, shrugging pathetically. “God, you are unbelievable sometimes,” she said, stomping back towards the house.

In response, James leant over and turned the radio up a couple of notches, knowing it would knock Nicola over the edge. She wished she could turn back and throw the laundry hamper full of ice over his head, but she knew where that would get her.

Concentrating on her breathing, Nicola tried to calm herself and ease her shaking hands. She sighed, switching the oven on, and opened the freezer. As she knelt down to open the drawer, her phone began to buzz, surprising her and causing her to knock her head against the freezer door.

“For fuck’s sake,” she breathed, clutching her head and getting up to look at her phone. “Malcolm, on a Saturday?” she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the last chapter! Thanks as always for your lovely commenters, and esp MistressOfObscurity for her wonderful support and invaluable insight into Nicola's character! I am so enjoying writing this fic so please do let me know if you have any feedback!


	9. Don't search me in here, I'm already gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel so unstable, fucking hate these people, how they're making me feel lately..."

“Malcolm”, Nicola smiled weakly, putting on the warmest voice possible despite the fact that she was in no mood to be bollocked by him.

Over in Fulham, Malcolm was pacing through his flat, one hand clutching the phone to his ear, the other hand rubbing at his neck. After Nicola’s strange call, he had had one of the most enjoyable evenings out in a very fucking long time. 

He had walked with Louise back to her place. He humoured her charade of looking for the old photographs and took the opportunity to explore her living room. For a relatively young woman, she was incredibly well read, and had exquisite taste in whisky. She poured him a glass and they sat on her sofa, poring over pictures of young Louise against the beautiful Scottish landscape. He couldn’t help but notice how close they had gotten; he had nonchalantly draped his arm around the back of the seat and she had slowly leaned into it. 

She was pretty, she was young, she was…American. 

“Nicola, hi”, Malcolm said with a weird tinge of politeness that made Nicola wonder what was wrong. “How are ye?”

“Great! My husband is a fucking lazy shit”, she said, raising her voice on the latter two words, as if he could hear her over the blare of the radio anyway, “but yeah, just great! Look it’s a Saturday and this is a really bad time, can this wait til Monday?”

She didn’t remember, Malcolm thought. She had no idea why he was calling. So the thing he had been putting off doing all day, he actually had not needed to do. He bit his lip and clenched his free fist. If he wasn’t concerned about her, he would have told her to fuck off and put the phone down, but less politely.

“Nicola”, he started, before stopping himself. If she didn’t remember, was there point in calling, potentially making their fucked up relationship even more fucked up? He was her boss, not her counsellor. 

“Mummy’s coming, sweetheart, she’s just on the phone,” Malcolm heard her say, her voice changed to the one reserved for her young children. 

Even if Nicola had forgot, he was going to remind her, he decided.

“Ye don’t remember the wee conversation we had yesterday, do ye?” Malcolm said, clearing his throat.

“Yesterday? Malcolm, yesterday you ducked into the lift when you saw me coming towards you so you wouldn’t have to talk to me,” Nicola said, tension in her voice.

“Ye might want to check your call history,” was all he said.

It was enough to trigger her memory. “Oh, God,” she said, clutching her hand to her forehead. On the couch, more red wine running through her veins than blood, she had dialled his number. She must have called him a big cockhead, or something. And now he was calling to reprimand her.

“Aye. Ye…ye said some troubling things…” Malcolm said.

Or worse. She had told him the truth, that she was kind of upset with how he had been treating her after how well they had been getting on. She must have let on that she had thought they were friends, or at least, friendly.

“Jesus, Malcolm, I'm sorry, for…whatever it was that I said. I’d had far too much to drink, it had been a stressful week. That’s so unprofessional of me, I don't know what came over me-”

Nicola had begun to ramble, even though she knew it was one of the things he couldn’t stand about her.

“Look…it’s fine,” he sighed. “You said to ring you, because there was something you needed to tell me. But I imagine with the state you were in, and the head ye had on ye, that thing is very fuckin’ unplaceable right now.”

She had walked over to the kitchen window and was staring out into the garden. “I have no idea what I would have been talking about,” she replied, sheepishly. “I’m really sorry about this Malcolm, for wasting your time, making you call me on a Saturday…”

He gave a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it. Was just worried you might tell me you had some sort of fuckin’ vicious brain cancer, which would at least explain your total ineptitude as a minister, eh? I’ll see you on Monday.” 

Before she had time to retort, he had ended the call. 

Malcolm had gone home, alone, to his flat last night. With Louise’s number, of course, he wasn’t a daftie. 

But as she had leant in to kiss him, all he could think about was The Right Honourable Nicola Fucking Murray MP.

* * *

Another dreary week passed at DoSAC. Nicola totally bungled a Mail interview that resulted in the rather unfortunate headline, “No Hurry, Murray!”, in reference to the department’s delayed reaction to the latest round of pension scheme providers to go bust. Glenn had sent an email containing sensitive data regarding said bust pension scheme to his entire address book, ensuring some excellent leaks to the press. And now, Nicola had to put on a nice smile and head out to some fucking DfE bash to shake hands and entertain the snide remarks and shit jokes of men in suits with shit haircuts from shit constituencies. 

She stood in front of her bedroom mirror, smoothing the skirt of her dress. She put on some dangly earrings, then took them off, not wanting to prompt a prostitute comment from Malcolm. Then she put them back on. Just because it was a work function didn’t mean she was working. She didn’t need his approval.

“Wow, Nic, you look amazing”, James said, appearing in the doorway. 

Nicola's cheeks coloured and she absentmindedly raised a hand to her hair. “Do you think so?” she smiled, turning to face him.

“Yes, I bloody do,” he replied, walking towards her and placing his arms round her neck. “What’s the occasion?” he said, his hands moving further down her back.

“What’s the occasion?” she scoffed. “James, it’s the Education bash.” She pulled away from his touch. 

He stood there, nonplussed. “The Education bash, James! I told you about this over a month ago? It’s in the calendar!” She stared, tiny without her heels, him almost a foot taller than her.

She sighed. “Look, you still have time to get ready. The car's coming at 7. Just hurry, will you?”

He stood still as she walked about the room, grabbing things to stuff inside her clutch, tidying the trail of makeup she had strewn behind her.

“James,” she said, her back turned as she rooted through her makeup bag, “I don’t hear you walking to the wardrobe to get changed. What are you doing?”

“Nicky, sweetheart, I can’t tonight. It’s one of the boys’ birthdays, there’s a whole thing planned in the city, I can’t get out of it-”

“Amazing, fucking thank you, James,” Nicola spat, “I’ll just tell everyone you and me had a massive fight and you fucked off back to your secretary, shall I, because that’s what everyone’s going to be thinking”.

Her heart raced. She hadn’t realised until she had said it that that was what she was afraid of. 

“Sorry Nic, I’ll make it up to you, I-”

“Save it for someone who cares, James, cause it’s not me,” Nicola replied, rushing to the ensuite and slamming the door shut before he could grab her.

Maybe if they had only been married a year or so, she would have expected him to come after her. She would have expected him to tell her he was sorry, that he wouldn’t go. Or that he would make it up to her. Or, that they would have it out, end up releasing their frustration on the bed. 

Now? She wasn’t surprised to hear the bedroom door slowly shut, footsteps tread downstairs. 

Now, she only had herself to talk to. 

* * *

Malcolm was in party mode which meant one thing: making sure his ministers were on their very fucking best behaviour. It was a wonder they were ever allowed to socialise again after the events of the previous year’s Christmas party. The amount of bollocking he had done that night had made his voice hoarse. He had also found out that it was very difficult to bollock whilst six whiskeys deep. Better make it seven tonight then, he thought, approaching the bar.

He surveyed the room before him. Glenn and Ollie were stood in a corner, probably chatting about fucking trains or something. Terri had been cornered by Fatty – there was no way he was getting involved in that, and he looked away from her attempt to make eye contact.

“Malcolm!”

There was no mistaking that plummy tone.

“Julius”, Malcolm said, “ye pompous git. How the hell are ye?” His hand landed on Julius’s back with a blow that caused him to choke on his sherry.

“Yes, very well, thank you,” he smiled with a splutter, seeming to regret coming over to Malcolm. “Just thought I’d give you an update on the AIU. Tom is _very _impressed with the work I’ve been doing regarding the assessment of the status of high priority policy areas…”

Now Malcolm was wishing he had saved Terri from Fatty. He could see her over the corner of Julius’s shoulder, gloating with her eyes. 

“…so that’s where I was thinking you could step in, Malcolm, really get the message out to the civil servants you oversee about the necessity for high quality data analysis?” Julius looked up at him, expectantly.

And that was when he saw his out.

“Listen, eh, Baldilocks, stick it in an email, alright? And go and plug that vacuous black hole you call a mouth with some fuckin’ _hors d’oeuvres_, yeah, before you bore anyone else to death”, Malcolm said, downing his glass and walking away, leaving a downtrodden Julius behind.

He approached the bar and moved in beside her.

“Sorry, am I in a copy of fuckin’ _50 Shades of Green _or something? What is this? Do you only own dresses in the colour green?”

“Malcolm”, she smiled through pursed lips. “A pleasure as always.”

“How are ye?” he said, wondering if a prostitute comment would be pushing it too far.

“Not bad, thanks. Kids are driving me round the bend!” she replied, eyes widening and shaking her head in a trademark Nicola Murray move.

“Where’s the old ball and chain?” Malcolm asked, craning his neck to scan the crowd for any sign of James Murray. “Schmoozing and boozing?”

“No,” she said, with an awkward smile, “he’s um, out on the town. Forgot all about tonight. Hi, can I get a glass of sauvignon and a vodka tonic, please?”

“I’m sorry, Nicola,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.

“What for?” Nicola replied, eyes focused on the hands of the barman, blinking quickly.

“Did someone call a DoSAC meeting without telling me? God, we really are the geeks of the cabinet, aren’t we. All antisocial, stick to our own, no outsiders,” Ollie said, pushing his glasses up with one finger. 

“I can’t tell if everyone here is an unbelievable dullard or if it’s me, if I’m the dullard, for not wanting to talk about accelerating…data analysis and policy delivery,” Glenn commented.

The DoSAC team swarmed upon them before Malcolm had chance to say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! I want to say a big thank you once again for all your lovely comments, they make me so happy. And a huge thanks to MistressOfObscurity for her brilliant insights into both characters. Sorry for the delay in getting this up - final deadlines are approaching! Writing this fic is such a great escape for me and I enjoy writing them so much, so thanks for being patient as ever. 
> 
> This chapter summed up:  
*Liz Lemon voice* Aaaugh! Things are happening!


	10. We drink to forget the coming storm

The evening passed rather uneventfully, which meant Malcolm was able to relax and enjoy a drink, rather than worry about which of his ministers was going to attempt to make a very public pass at any of the wait staff. He was fond of Tom, the Secretary of State for Education, feeling he was one of the more competent ministers whom he only occasionally had to whip into shape.

It was around 10ish and things had begun to get rather raucous. Dan Miller had had a bit too much to drink and, it seemed to Malcolm, a sniff of something someone in his position really fucking should not be sniffing. He was, unfortunately, about two vodka tonics too far gone to find it within himself to care. Plus, he didn’t give a solitary shit about Miller. If the papers found out about his little problem, it gave Malcolm an actual reason to boot him.

Feeling about four sheets to the wind, he stepped out onto the terrace for some air, and for the chance to check his BlackBerry that he realised had buzzed a couple of times. No one was about. They were all too busy quaffing the complimentary cocktails, which, by the way, did not seem to fit into the fucking education budget. Maybe Tom wasn’t one of the good ones after all.

Malcolm leant against the railing and pulled out his phone. It was from Louise.

“Hope you’re not too bored. The night is still young. Only a cab ride away for more whisky and reminiscences. Lx”

He smiled, and began to type out a reply. Then he heard the screen door shut and absentmindedly turned his head to see which of his ministers had come out for a puke. One of the good ones.

“Didn’t think it was possible for your face to get much greener than your dress”, Malcolm grinned, eyeing her up and down. He said this, even though she didn’t look green to him. She was slightly shiny from the heat of the ballroom, but rather than make her appear greasy or pallid, it gave her olive skin a warm glow.

“I’d make a reference to _Shrek_ but you’re an unmarried man in his fifties, so I don’t imagine you’re thoroughly acquainted with the DreamWorks catalogue”, Nicola replied, walking over to the railing to join him.

He gave a slight laugh at this, looking out over the Thames. The sun had just set and it was getting cooler. Nicola rubbed away at her goosebumps.

“Why are you sorry?”

The question was unprecedented, but Malcolm kept on staring out at the Thames. The city lights were reflecting on the water, and boats carrying diners and tourists enjoying an evening on the town floated past.

“Malcolm?” she said, demanding an answer. She really didn’t know.

“Nicola,” he said, “have ye always been this fuckin’ dense, or did ye sprout a tumour around the age of forty? Why am I fucking sorry? Why do you think, ye fuckin’ pillock? Because he treats you like shit and you go crawling back to him every fuckin’ time, which doesn’t make a metric millimeter of _sense_ because you don’t take shit from me or any other fucker in Parliament, but time after time after _time_, you take him back and despite being in possession of two, yes, two degrees, I cannot understand why. So I’m sorry for ye. I’m sorry that ye cannot see that he takes advantage of ye and that you, Nicola fucking Murray, deserve better.”

Her heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest and she thought she had swallowed her tongue. She didn’t know what to say, so she just said, “Malcolm”.

His eyes were focused on the river before them and his jaw was tight.

“Malcolm”, Nicola said again, her chest rising and falling, “look at me.”

He turned to face her, gaze flitting from her eyes to her lips and back again.

“I’m sorry Nicola,” Malcolm said again, and he didn’t know if it was the vodka tonic (it was definitely the vodka tonic) or the light playing on the Thames at night or if it was the way that dress hugged her curves or how sad she had seemed at the bar and how she had lit up just now after he had told her what he thought of her, but either way it didn’t fucking matter because he was kissing Nicola Murray.

And she was kissing him back. And it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He placed his hand on her waist and pulled her into him, her body now leaning against his. Her breath was hot and heavy and tasted like wine and he couldn’t get enough of her, needed her as close as possible. He nestled his other hand through her hair, resting it against the back of her head, bringing them closer. The rational part of his brain told him to stop, that they could be discovered at any moment, that this could finish both of them. But then she would make a soft noise he had never heard her make, run his thumb against her jaw, and then he couldn’t think anymore.

They pulled apart, breathless, Malcolm’s hand still soft against her cheek. He looked into those dark eyes he had seen so many times before. He thought about how sad they were, how all those times he was giving her hell, she had so much going on inside her head and at home.

“Ok?” he asked, his eyes searching Nicola’s face for some sign of consciousness.

“Ok,” she replied, although her frown betrayed her lips.

“Ok?” he asked again, holding her face in his hands.

“Ok”, she said, bobbing her head up and down. She had solved whatever mental arithmetic she had been doing, then.

Nicola turned to look out at the skyline before them. They sidled up to the ledge and leant against it once again. They were quiet for a few moments, until she drew a breath.

“When I first moved here, to London, I mean, I thought it was going to be all rooftop bars and hotel brunches. And it was, I suppose, for the first year or so, anyway, when that sort of thing is still new and exciting. But what no one tells you about moving to London is the loneliness. You know, you can be in a city full of nine million people and still feel like the loneliest fucker in the world. You meet so many people and they ask how you are and you talk about the fucking weather but none of them really care. They’re wrapped up in themselves. It’s all politeness without any substance. I don’t think…I’ve ever not felt alone here.”

He looked at her and felt like he was seeing her for the first time. Nicola Murray, without any of the political bullshitting or trying to be somebody else, just being…honest, about who she was, for once. Her usually wild hair was tamed into loose curls, and her shoulders were bare above the bardot neckline of her dress. She was beautiful.

“You’re not alone”, Malcolm said, “not now”. Before he knew it, his lips were on hers again, but this time she had initiated the kiss.

He ran his hands down the curves of Nicola’s waist, and moved in to plant kisses up and down her neck. This elicited soft moans from her, as she tilted her head back to offer him better access.

“Let’s go”, she breathed, pulling away from him suddenly.

“Where?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, we can’t go to mine”, she said, matter-of-factly. The old Nicola Murray charm offensive was back, Malcolm noted, with emphasis on the offensive.

And that was how Malcolm Tucker ended up leaving a party in order to take one of his ministers back to his place.

* * *

They had dipped into a cab in the black of the night, but not without complications. Nicola was fretting that them being seen leaving the party together would make people talk, and while her neurosis would usually frustrate Malcolm to the point of tears, he had to agree with her.

He had dipped into the crowd to find Ollie, and, knowing how word gets around at these things, told him rather loudly that Nicola had been sick so he was taking her home.

“Can’t you just put her in a cab and be done with it?” Ollie asked rather reasonably. “She’s a mother of four, not a baby rhinoceros”, he said. Malcolm chose to ignore the hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Listen, mate,” Malcolm said, lowering his voice, “I didn’t wanna have to tell ye the finer details, but it’s coming out of both ends, yeah, an’ I think we’d both rather avoid you having to abandon this nice party to stop a story about your leaky minister – and I mean that quite literally – from making the rags.”

Ollie gave Malcolm something in between a weak smile and a grimace, before nodding his head and making his way towards Glenn, presumably to tell him everything he had just heard.

* * *

In the car, Nicola was less pleased with Malcolm’s plan.

“Why did you have to tell him I shat myself?” she groaned as he kissed up and down her neck. “You couldn’t have said I had a migraine, or there was an emergency, or, or, or…”

She stopped as Malcolm placed his fingers against her lips. “Would ye rather them think ye had an unfortunate bout of food poisoning, or know that ye were disappearing from a party with yer government’s chief enforcer after a few too many sauvignons?”

Nicola nodded her head up and down. “Food poisoning”, she mumbled, before pulling him into another kiss.

Eventually, the car pulled up outside Malcolm’s flat. He took the opportunity to admire Nicola’s firm arse as she stepped out from the cab, before placing his arm on the small of her back and leading her inside. He lived on the top floor so was able to enjoy the view for longer as they climbed up the stairs. It was quiet, and the only sounds to be heard were her nervous breathing and the clap of her heels echoing through the stairwell.

Entering the flat, they had crossed the threshold from public to private. And with that in mind, Malcolm was about to do all that he couldn’t whilst at that party.

He pushed Nicola up against the wall, causing her to let out a tiny moan, as his hands roamed over her body. He felt like a teenager discovering it all for the first time, he wanted to touch every inch of her skin, hear her cry out, make her forget her own name. He ran his hand up the slit in her dress, causing her to groan into his mouth.

“Malcolm”, she breathed, as his hands travelled further up her sides, hoisting her dress up as he went.

“Malcolm”, she repeated, but less breathily. He looked up at her. “Sorry, I, um, I’ve had so much wine, I really need the loo. I’ve needed it since we got in the car.”

He laughed a little. “Why didn’t ye say so, pet?” He pulled away from her. “Toilet’s just down the hall to the right.”

Nicola nodded and tottered down the hall. She didn’t notice til she got to the bathroom how hard her heart was beating, how nervous she really was.

Perched on the edge of his bath, she pulled her heels from her aching feet.

She wanted this. _God_, she wanted this, hadn’t realised how long she had wanted it for.

She slipped her shoes back on, and made her way out into the hall, where Malcolm was waiting for her, nonchalantly leaning against the doorframe.

“You ready?”

“Malcolm, I-”

“Can’t”, he finished for her. “I know. Because you’re married to that sack of shite, and wouldn’t want to hurt him, despite the fact that ever since the day ye met him, he’s been hurting ye.”

“Don’t, Malcolm,” Nicola said, reaching out for him, but he pushed her hand away.

“No, you don’t, Nicola. I don’t care if ye don’t want this tonight, it’s not sex I want from ye…” He gave a large sigh, pulling back the hand he had previously batted away, “I want you.”

She kissed him, pulling him towards her, hard and fast, before heading for the door.

“Nicola”, he called out, going after her. “Nicola.”

She turned to face him, hand on the doorknob.

“Stay.”

She looked at him, and for a split second, he thought she was going to make the right decision for once in her life.

Instead, tears in her eyes, she walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks again for lovely comments and for supporting this fic! This was both a great and a heartbreaking chapter to write... on the one hand, they KISSED, but on the other, it's Malcolm and Nicola, so nothing can ever be straightforward. Comments/thoughts are as always appreciated. Also, I have been so validated writing this fic ever since Rebecca confirmed in that podcast that she played Nicola as if she had a crush on Malcolm. Which in my eyes, means Malcola are semi-canon, at least in Nicola's head. Hope everyone is well during these crazy times.


	11. We nearly drowned for such a silly thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I haven't told anyone, just like we promised. Have you?"

The warm summer’s evening had blackened into night, bringing with it a heavy shower. Nicola cursed as she walked out of Malcolm’s building into the wet street, using her clutch to cover her head as she called for a cab. By the time it arrived, she was soaked through and shivering, her hair dripping against the leather seats.

She leant her head against the window, looking out into the dark night. They stopped at traffic lights and she gazed at a group of men and women, none of them older than their twenties, stood outside a pub. They were smoking fags and laughing, necking beer bottles. One of the girls wore a tight little leather jacket. She remembered being that age, when the only person you had to worry about was you. The car pulled on as the light shone green.

Now Nicola had lots to worry about. Like Ella settling down at school, and her mother’s declining health, and her performance at work, and James…James deserved a category of worry dedicated entirely to him.

She tugged at the pendant around her neck, ruminating over what she was going to do about him. Of course she’d contacted a solicitor, she wasn’t stupid. And every time he did something to devalue her, whether it be leaving the seat up or staying out late with the lads when he promised to have an evening with the kids, she inched closer and closer to making it official. But something kept her tied to him. Something at the back of her mind told her she was nothing without him.

She ran her hand absentmindedly down her neck, and her stomach sank. She rummaged through her clutch and pulled out a compact, hands wobbling as she tried to find the right angle.

“For fuck’s sake, Malcolm!” Nicola said, prompting a raised eyebrow from the driver.

She rubbed away at the purplish bruise he had left. She knew he had done it on purpose, knowing how it would make her feel, knowing James would see it.

Maybe she wanted James to see it. To show him she was desirable, that two can play at his game, that she could fuck just like him.

So why didn’t she do it?

“You wouldn’t want to hurt him, despite the fact that ever since the day you met him he’s been hurting you.”

She chewed the soft skin around her thumb, thinking about the way he had kissed her up on that balcony when anyone could have come across them, how he pulled at her waist and ran his hands down the small of her back.

Then the car pulled up and she was walking inside her house, wondering how she was going to hide her neck from James for a whole weekend.  
  


* * *

  
The door to his flat shut, Malcolm sank onto his sofa, head in his hands. Nicola was gone. Back to her nice house with her horrible husband and her equally satanic spawn.

And he knew what she was like. Come Monday, she’d be all jolly hockey sticks, moving forward, pretending nothing had ever happened between them but at the same time constantly avoiding his eye.

He couldn’t take it. Not now that he’d acknowledged she was what he wanted. Before tonight, it had been all nice and repressed, his attraction to her tucked away in the recesses of his brain as a good Freudian nightmare ought to be. But now it was out, and he had to deal with the mortification that not only was Nicola Fucking Murray aware that he had “feelings” for her like some spotty schoolboy twat, but that she didn’t even feel the same way.

He slammed his fist down on the coffee table in front of him, sending his BlackBerry clattering to the floor.

“For fuck’s sake”, he cursed, picking it up. Three voicemails.

Beep.

“Hiya Malc”. He smiled. It was his sister. The only one who had his actual permission to call him that. “Just checking in. I know you’re busy down in London, hopefully not too busy to have forgotten about us. Will graduates from uni next weekend so we’d love it if you were able to make the ceremony. Anyway, just let us know. Love you. Bye.”

Shit. Was his nephew really that old? He also didn’t know if he’d be able to make it up to Dundee next weekend.

Beep.

“Malcolm, it’s Tom.” He sighed. It was the early hours of Saturday morning and the PM was leaving him a fucking voicemail. There really was no escape. “Just making sure you’re on top of everything with the cabinet reshuffle coming up. Gonna need you on your A game the next couple of weeks buddy, ok?”

That confirmed it. No trip to Dundee then, because the Prime Minister of the United Fucking Kingdom couldn’t handle a wee fucking cabinet reshuffle all on his own. Add that to the massive fucking list of Cherished Dates and Fond Memories he’d missed.

Beep.

“Hey Malcolm…I guess you didn’t get my texts earlier. It’s kinda late now, but please do call if you’d like to get together sometime next week. Ok. Speak soon.”

Louise. She was a sweet girl, and perhaps twenty odd years ago he would have been quite crazy about her, but now…now he was old, and he liked staying in and watching Newsnight and listening to fucking Radio 4. Whatever Louise was, he was past it.

That decided in his mind, Malcolm stood up and headed for his bed, ignoring the knot in his stomach that appeared every time he thought about Nicola.  
  


* * *

  
The last thing Nicola wanted to see on a Monday morning, minutes after arriving to the office, was Malcolm Tucker heading straight for her. Especially not after what had happened between them.

She had been turning it over in her mind the entire weekend, having picked the skin around her fingers ‘til they were raw. Thankfully, she had managed to avoid any questions from James about the bruised skin of her neck, although he had called her a daft bint for sweating through a turtleneck in 22 degree heat. She could live with that.

“Malcolm”, Nicola said, putting on her best Pretending-Nothing-Has-Happened smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure at…9:03am?”

“I thought I’d better tell ye so ye hear it from me, because I know what you’re like when blindsided by unexpected news.”

She balked at this. “I’m a big girl, Malcolm. Whatever proverbial shit you have to throw at me, just do it.”

“Oh aye darlin’, you’re such a big fuckin’ girl that I have to come here and hold your fuckin’ hand and plait your fuckin’ hair all over a wee fuckin’ cabinet reshuffle”, he said, arms waving about.

At this, Nicola’s heartrate about doubled. Malcolm eyed her as she clutched her stomach, one of her tells that she was feeling anxious. Words began to spill out of her mouth at 200 miles an hour.

“The reshuffle? I thought I was staying put. Malcolm, you told me I was staying put. Where am I going? Oh fuck. Oh shit. He’s had enough of me, hasn’t he? Oh fuck. I’m not going to Northern Ireland, Malcolm. That fucking bastard cannot make me go to fucking Northern Ireland. Where’s Ollie? Ollie?”

Suddenly he was in front of her, closing the door she had just opened.

“No. No Ollie. No older brother coming to save his baby sister from a bollocking. Listen to daddy, yeah?” he said, back against the door.

“What? You’re not the parent in this equation. You’re the fucking au pair who’s come to tell the pathetic child why mummy and daddy doesn’t want to spend any time with them”, Nicola said, jabbing him in the chest with her finger.

He sighed. “Look, Nic’la…you’re not going to Northern Ireland. You’re going to the Ministry of Justice.”

She turned away from him and headed for her desk. “For…what? For a meeting? For a meal held in my honour?”

“Nic’la, you’re the new Secretary of State for Justice.”

Then she did something he never expected her to do. She started laughing. At first, it was a soft giggle, but then it turned into what could only be described as a cackle. He had never heard her laugh like that and was slightly alarmed. She was wiping tears from her eyes, stomach rising and falling.

“Is that Rescue Remedy you’re sniffing actually just paint? Is there a punchline I’m missing here?” he asked, brow furrowed.

Still laughing, she got up from her chair and came towards him. “You’re telling me…after all this time…I’ve finally got good at my job…and you’re shipping me off to Justice…where the stakes…are about fifty times higher than dowdy DoSAC?”

He cleared his throat, and spoke with an awkwardness that was unusual for him. “The PM has seen what you’ve done with the department and thinks your talents would be better suited to Justice.”

Her laughter stopped. “You’re not joking? You’re not joking are you. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Send me to Northern Ireland. I’ll charter an Aer Lingus flight. I’ll learn Gaelic. I’ll-”

He closed the gap between them, gently holding her wrists which she had been wringing so hard he thought they might fly off and out the window. “Nic’la, breathe.”

“Malcolm, I can’t go to Justice. I haven’t practiced law since Ella was born. I wasn’t even much good at it, I-”

“Breathe.”

He looked at her, and saw the same fear in her eyes as on the night in the hotel bar when he had reached for her bruised knee. Right now, she needed him to be kind.

“Nic’la”, he said, softly drawing her wrists towards him. “Tom wouldn’t have given ye this if he didn’t think ye capable. The data loss thing wasn’t your fault. We can work on your media training. The earring on Marr, the same thing, yeah?”

She gave a small smile at this, so he went on, encouraged.

“Ministers weren’t made for the media, they were made to do good by the people who elected them…_you’re_ here because you do good by the people who elected _you_.”

There were three things Nicola fantasised about doing with Malcolm there in her office. One was slapping him, right in his smug face, usually imagined after a particularly embarrassing or public dressing-down. The second was kissing him, generally after occasions where he’d had to talk her down from the ledge and showed her a tenderness she had never seen in him with anyone else. The third was slapping and then kissing him, reserved for their more heated arguments, where they both had anger in their eyes and fire in their stomachs.

She had never imagined actually doing any of them. But there she was, performing Daydream #2, in her office with the glass walls, at 9:05 in the morning.

Nicola placed his wrists on her hips, as he gladly leaned into her and pressed into the kiss. She badly wanted to close her eyes and let his kisses take over, but she had to keep an eye on the door in case an unwanted civil servant came wandering past. Malcolm moved from her lips to her neck, causing her to moan softly, rolling her head back to allow him better access.

“Malcolm!” she cried, as he began to run his hand up her skirt.

“Ye like that, darlin’?” he smiled. “I can keep goin’…”

She slapped his hand and pushed him away from her, surprise in her eyes. “Malcolm”, she said. “People.”

Malcolm quickly turned and saw Robyn and Terri approaching from the other side of the office. He spun round on his heels and sprung into action.

“If I _ever _hear you take that tone with me again, it’s over fer you, you understand me?” Malcolm yelled, finger outstretched.

She was frowning, confused, until she spotted Robyn and Terri staring through the glass, whispering.

“You’re in _my _fucking office, do you realise that? And while we’re in my office, I’ll talk to you however the fuck I fancy, thanks.”

Malcolm looked over his shoulder, and Robin and Terri immediately walked away in opposite directions. Ant and Dec in drag out of the picture, he leaned towards her.

“We’ll finish this later”, he grinned, heading for the door.

Nicola smiled, but the panicked deer-in-the-DoSAC-office look on her face was back. She was still shitting it about transferring to Justice.n

He turned back and took her hand, soft and small in his. “Ye can do this, darlin’. I believe in you.”

She shook her head up and down in what was possibly her best nodding dog impression yet.

“Look, what are ye doin’ tonight? We’ll have dinner. We can talk through anything you’re worried about, and I’ll show ye that you’re up to this.”

The nodding dog stopped, and Malcolm saw what he thought was colour rise in the minister’s cheeks.

“Yes, yes, that…would be nice”, she said, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face.

“Ok then”, he said with a slight laugh.

Later, in his office, his secretary Sam asked him who had died, because he hadn’t stopped smiling all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, hope you enjoy this update! Not much to say with this one apart from the usual comments and feedback are appreciated, so as Rebecca Front's unofficial publicist, I will use this week's notes to plug her new BBC programme 'The Other One'. Check it out if you haven't already!
> 
> Thanks as ever for your lovely comments, they really make my day. Thanks also to MistressOfObscurity and Sarah for their invaluable insights and suggestions.
> 
> Also, shoutout Ben if you're actually reading this. Leave me a comment and kudos!!
> 
> I look forward to updating you all soon <3


	12. We don't own our heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You bought a star in the sky tonight, because your life is dark and it needs some light"

“Well, it was bound to happen sooner rather than later", Terri said matter-of-factly, eating a tuna sandwich, either unaware of or uncaring of the crumbs she was spraying in Robyn's direction.

"What, do you think so?" Robyn said, in awe of Terri's inability to chew with her mouth closed.

"Of course. You know what they're like. Chalk and cheese. Fire and ice. They say that opposites attract, you know."

"I don't know if it's opposites attract as much as opposites argue, then opposites kiss and bang", Robyn replied, making a mental note to sit in the chair furthest away from Terri the next time they had lunch together.

"Who's banging? You and Glenn finally decided to get on with it?" Ollie smirked, giving both of them a surprise as he emerged from behind the glass door of the meeting room they had commandeered into a lunch-and-gossip spot.

"Yeah Ollie, last night I gave him the ride of his life but unfortunately his old heart gave out. Didn't even get to finish, poor thing", Robyn said.

"Very good", he replied, unsatisfied with her response. He pushed on. "No, really. Who's kissing and banging? We never get any gossip in this place, it's like being on the bloody Mayflower. Any suggestion of fun and you have to whip yourself with the cat o' nine tails."

"I don't think it's for us to say, I mea-"

"Malcolm and Nicola. Who else would it be?" Terri said, unfazed, in disregard of the agreement she and Robyn had made earlier to keep it between themselves.

"Terri!" Robyn cried. "We said we'd keep it to ourselves."

"Since when have you been so loyal to Nicola?" Ollie said, bemused. "I bet she doesn't even know your surname. Go on, go and ask her if she knows your surname. She barely knows you exist. Anyway, no, they're not banging. We've been over this. I made a mistake, you don't have to keep rubbing it in..."

"No, no, Ollie, they are. Robyn and I came across them earlier. They were...canoodling, in her office. You were right before," Terri said, finishing the last bite of her sandwich.

"Holy shit", Ollie said, grinning. "I knew I'd seen them. Fuck me! I've actually got one over on Malcolm. This is fucking brilliant."

"What's that?" Nicola appeared at the door, as if summoned by the suggestion that Ollie was in any way superior to her.

"What?" he said, spinning round to face her, with that caught with his cock in the cookie jar look in his eyes.

"What is it that's fucking brilliant? The response to the new policy announcement? Your best impression of a fucking weeping willow tree?" Nicola said.

"Yes, the, the response to the plastic bag price increase has been overwhelmingly positive. Almost too positive, even," Ollie replied, cock now firmly lodged within the cookie jar.

Surprisingly though, Nicola, ever in need of reassurance/an ego stroke, bought it.

"Really?" she said, smiling. "I mean, I knew it was good. I just wasn't sure the public were going to...get it, you know? That is fucking brilliant. Ok, look, finish up your mothers' meeting, we have work to do. Ollie, I need you in my office in five. It's...sensitive."

Ollie wondered how it could be more sensitive than what was about to become a fairly open secret about her and the party spin doctor.

* * *

Nicola had told her congratulatory yet bewildered staff about her big move to the Ministry of Justice. Ollie had choked so hard that Glenn had to pat him on the back, and Robyn started laughing in the belief that it was all an elaborate prank. But after the coughing/laughing fits had subsided, they had all commended her and churned out something about always having believed in her. Ollie had even looked impressed, Nicola was pleased to note. Now all that remained was to tell James.

Telling one’s husband about a big promotion or transfer ought to be celebratory. The normal thing to do would be to go for a big meal or drinks to celebrate. Nicola knew this, however, she also knew that she and James were not normal. The day she became a minister, she had stood in her office, finally getting through to him after having left dozens of messages, and instead of congratulating her, he asked her if she had turned it down.

“Of course I didn’t fucking turn it down, James, why the fuck would I turn it down?” she had cried, voice wavering, unaware of or in spite of her new aides, who were stood staring at her through the glass.

She laughed, causing Ollie and Glenn to share a wide-eyed look. “You know what, James, you would be happiest if I was stuck at home like one of the Stepford Wives, wouldn’t you? Well guess what, you didn’t marry a Stepford wife, you got me fucking pregnant and then you married me.”

At this point, Nicola became aware of the pairs of eyes glued to her through the glass windows of her office, and realised she needed to get off the phone quickly to avoid being labelled Mental with a capital M.

“I’ll take your warm congratulations…as implied”, she said finally, pursing her lips, and putting the phone down on him.

Just thinking back to that day and the screaming match that ensued when she got home gave her a headache. Nicola rubbed at her eyes, willing the dull ache to disappear, wondering how her husband was going to react to her news this time that she was yet again taking on a larger responsibility at work.

“Bad head?”

She looked up and saw Malcolm, and gave him a soft smile.

“Thinking about how I’m going to tell James my news,” she said with a sigh.

“Ah,” he said, approaching her desk. “How about, ‘listen, fucko, ave got a job at the MoJ, shut the fuck up else I’ll bang you the fuck up, you bent fucking bastard?’”

She looked up at him, still smiling. “Somehow, I’m not sure he’d be happy with that.”

He moved in behind her, reaching down to kiss at her neck. “I don’t know why ye care what he thinks. He should be proud to have such a successful, smart, sexy wife,” he whispered.

“Malcolm," she sighed, moving away from his kiss despite how good it felt, “you know I can’t do this. What happened the other night, I…”

He withdrew from her neck, leaving her wishing he hadn’t. He moved in front of her, reaching out and holding her chin in his fingers.

“The day you’ve had enough of him…you just give me a ring, yeah?”

She nodded her head, softly breathing, “okay”.

He took one last look at her, her face in his hands, and then he was gone.

* * *

Nicola sighed as she shut the door behind her, kicking off her heels and throwing her bag to the floor. It was rare that she got any time to herself these days, especially after Malcolm had “advised” that she dumped the childcare arrangements to make herself appear more real. She had told him he had no idea what it was like to work full-time as well as parent four children, and he had reminded her where the door was.

She walked into the lounge and was somewhat relieved at what she saw. It wasn’t as messy as it had been when she had left for the day, and Ben and Rosie were sat on the floor watching _Toy Story, _surprisingly not arguing for once.

“Hi love,” James said, coming up behind her and planting a kiss on her cheek. “There’s lasagne in the kitchen, it only needs heating up in the mic.”

“Thanks,” Nicola replied, slightly incredulously. “Where’s Katie and Ella?”

“Daughter No. 1 is in her room, reading quietly, and Daughter No. 2 is at a sleepover at Emma’s.”

“Oh. Right.” Nicola said, unaccustomed to such a lack of chaos in her house on a Friday evening.

She nibbled at her fingernail. Well, there was room for chaos yet.

“James, could I…speak to you, in the kitchen, please?” God, she felt like the trainee teacher not wanting to tell off a child for fear of being disliked.

She pottered around the kitchen, putting the lasagne in the microwave and folding tea towels as if that was a normal thing to do.

“So, um, I have some news”, Nicola said, taking her blazer off and then immediately deciding to put it back on again.

“Fire away,” James said, lifting his glass of wine to his lips.

“Well, I’ve…”

She sighed. “Be the cowboy you wish to see in the world,” she told herself.

“I’m moving to the Ministry of Justice,” Nicola said. “To be the Minister for Justice, of course”, she quickly added, with an awkward laugh.

James drained his glass, leaving Nicola waiting, her heart fluttering so much she thought it might sprout wings and fly off.

“That’s brilliant,” he said at last.

“Really?” Nicola smiled.

“Of course. Well done darling, I’m proud of you,” James smiled back, pulling her in for a kiss and a hug.

“It’s such a surprise, I mean, as far as I knew I was staying put. I’m going to have to brush off the old legal cap, that’s for sure…I don’t even know if I still have it in me,” she said, rambling as ever.

“Don’t be daft,” James said. He held her face in his hands, making her stomach churn as she thought about earlier that day. “You’ll be great.”

He clapped his hands together suddenly, making her jump.

“Let’s celebrate. Not tonight. Let’s dump the kids on your mother for the weekend, I’ll book a hotel, we can do whatever you want.”

Nicola laughed. “Okay, yeah. Yeah, let’s do that. It’d be nice to spend some proper time together for once.”

“Lasagne’s ready,” James said with a wink, before heading back into the lounge.

She pulled the lasagne out of the microwave with a quizzical smile. She had expected to be halfway into a steaming argument with him by now, not planning a hotel stay. Perhaps people could change after all. This thought made her cheeks flush as she remembered all she had done.

* * *

It was on yet another Saturday that Malcolm was rolling out of bed before 6am. He was accustomed to it now; spin and the media and party policy filled not only every minute of his waking day, but had begun to invade the precious few hours he had to sleep. The reshuffle had brought along its own stresses, what with Tom being more concerned with his place in history than with governing in the present moment.

He sat on his couch, his eyes fixed on BBC _Breakfast _but his thoughts elsewhere, mindlessly nibbling at a hangnail. Tom’s vision for his premiership included a lot of fluff talk about “diversity” and “inclusivity”. But four years in, facing reelection, he had done squat fucking diddly. As part of a last ditch attempt (that cost no money in comparison to the implementation of some expensive policy), he had decided to reconfigure his cabinet with a focus on bringing diverse voices into government.

Of course, this was merely a masquerade. Everyone (especially the fucking media, much to Malcolm’s chagrin) knew that Tom was notorious for ignoring his Cabinet, that being apart of the Cabinet was akin to receiving one of those stupid star naming certificates—you’ve bought a star, but what can you actually do with it?

Justice was a big one. Since the role’s inception, the Secretary of State for Justice had not once been a woman. The role currently sat with Jimmy Ables, under whose guidance Tom had practised as a pupil barrister. The appointment had been controversial from the start, and now that Ables was in the papers for spending taxpayers’ money on his home renovations, he had to go.

So, who to bring in? The only suitable candidates were all ageing white men. Replacing Ables with one of them would just be rehashing more of the same.

“What about Nicola Murray?” Malcolm had said, expecting the idea to be lightly considered, then tossed out.

But to his surprise, Number 10 ran with it.

Malcolm chewed his lower lip as he thought about how excited she had been when she realised he was serious about her moving to Justice. For Nicola, this job was all about making change, making things better for people in this country. Having practised family law for all those years made that obvious. So to be placed in Justice, whilst daunting, was an opportunity for her to effect real change.

But once again, she was just a pawn in one giant fucking game of political chess. Just like her appointment to DoSAC, Nicola wasn’t being rewarded based on merit, but on necessity.

He could never tell her the actual circumstances of her appointment. He could never let her down and hurt her like that.

His phone buzzed. The hacks were starting early today, then.

“Fancy doing lunch today? Would love to pick your brain RE:reshuffle. Lx”

Malcolm smiled, tongue in his cheek. Fuck it. He had nothing else planned for the day.

“Afraid there might be nothing of said brain left to pick. Only scraps for vultures. Come round at 1 for lunch and scraps of brain?”

He received an affirmative reply instantly, and headed for the shower, deciding to push any and all thoughts of Nicola out of his brain. She’d made her decision and that was to keep running back to her bent husband like a stupid but loyal beagle. Perhaps it was best for her to go back to being his sleep paralysis demon and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you like this update. Thanks as always for your lovely comments, I love reading them so much. & thanks as always to amazing MistressofObscurity for her insight into these two. I have...big plans for the next chapter, which will probably end up being a bit longer. Can't wait to hear all your thoughts!!


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